Centre of the Web
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: The Final Problem AU. Holmes and Watson never made it to the continent. Instead they contend with Moriarty in the heart of London herself. Will they, or even the city, be standing at the end of it?
1. Running

**This is an AU version of the Final Problem, and is based of the Granada version, meaning that Watson is not married. **

**We begin shortly after Holmes' abrupt entrance in Baker Street When he has finished giving Watson instructions for the next day.**

* * *

I sighed as I peered stealthily out of the drapes that had been drawn all day across our window's

The street below was still and unmoving. All seemed peaceful this night on Baker street. But I knew better, for the attitude of fear that was so rank about my friend had creeped into my own system and I felt as though the whole house were under siege, as though a great black hand was hovering over my head waiting to swat us like so many flies on a windowsill.

"Watson! Get away from there!"

I snatched my hand back and recoiled from the window as though it were the blazing entrance of a furnace, rather than a pane of cool glass.

Holmes had emerged from his bedroom, his face as strained and pale, clearly spent. The few hours of peace here had done little to distill his apprehension.

"Didn't I tell you to keep away from them Watson!" He snapped again, though I knew his biting tone was one of concern rather than anger alone.

"Sorry Holmes." I whispered. I had been speaking at such a volume all evening, as though Moriarty himself could hear us.

Holmes held a small valise in his right hand and as I watched he moved swiftly for his coat and hat.

"You must be cautious Watson! You haven't the least idea of what this man is capable of! Do you remember you're instructions?"

"Yes."

"Then I implore you to follow them exactly! And do not look out of any more windows my dear fellow."

I nodded and he picked a stick out of the stand, unusually large and heavy.

I swallowed and spoke.

"Are you certain you'll be alright Holmes? Shall I not come along with you now?" I asked quickly, already knowing the answer from the regretful smile on his face.

"No no no Watson. You will be far safer here without me."

I nodded again, trying to steady my hands and quell the feeling of panic rising in my chest, staring at my shoes through a light so dim that I could barely make out their shapes among the carpet. It was one thing to face these dangers with Sherlock Holmes at my side. It was quite another to be alone with such knowledge…or even worse to imagine Holmes facing them alone.

The fire cracked and I leapt suddenly as a light hand laid itself on my shoulder.

I looked up into Holmes' face which had become unusually gentle, and he spoke in that soft voice that made my fear even greater despite its intended assurance.

"Don't worry Watson. We have a good chance against this villain as long as you follow my instruction without question. I shall see you tomorrow at the carriage."

I swallowed again. "Do I have your word on that Holmes?"

He smiled. "My word Watson."

Then he turned without another word and headed for the door.

"Be careful Holmes!" I called after him and he paused.

"It is not myself I am worried about Watson. I am being incredibly selfish by taking you with me."

"I would not have it any other way." I said.

He nodded, exited the door quietly and shut it firmly behind him.

* * *

I pelted down the ramp of Victoria station toward the continental express my lungs searing as though afire.

I would make it just in time as Holmes had said, I allowed myself to slow to a bit of a walk as the train came into sight and I stumbled towards it, breathing heavily.

There ahead was the compartment and I sighed in relief at the sight of it. There…Holmes would be there.

I staggered up to is and frowned in confusion as I saw one of the porters speaking to someone inside.

It was not Holmes, it was an elderly priest with a horribly long nose and snow-white hair that billowed about his head like whisps of cloud, desperate to escape the confines of his wide-brimmed hat.

He supposedly could not speak a word of English for the porter turned to me in despair as I approached.

"Excuse me sir, do you speak Italian?"

"I'm afraid not." said I, "I'm looking for the man who's reserved this compartment…have you seen him?"

The man shook his head regretfully. "No sign of him sir. But if you're traveling you'd better get aboard. We're due to head off any moment."

I stepped into the compartment and closed the door behind me, staring out of the window anxiously, though no look left nor right revealed the figure of my friend.

Surely he had not been attacked sometime in the night. He had been at Mycroft's. He had to be alright.

But the porters' were already shutting the doors and the last few, late minute travelers were scurrying for their compartments.

I heard a mumbled stream of Italian behind me and turned to see the elderly priest smiling at me.

The poor fellow's mouth was mainly comprised of gaping gums in lieu of teeth, which would account for the infirmity of his speech. I gave him a polite smile in return and stared back out of my window.

My heart began to pound as the second's passed and I found myself gazing at every and any figure who might be my friend, feeling my hope rise and fall every time they were not revealed to be him.

A desperate thought seized me and I stole another glance at the Italian gentleman who smiled and nodded.

Surely not?...but no…he was not Holmes, of that I was assured though it would have been very like the detective to startle me in such a manner. The fellow's eyes were a watery blue and his hands…his hands were the final blow, they were lacking any of the stains and grace of Holmes' hands. They were instead blunted and unusually short, and not even Holmes could disguise himself in that manner unless he was obliged to lob several centimeters of each finger.

I bit my lip and turned for the third time to my window, intent on resuming my desperate search. But the whistle was blowing! And I felt a chill of fear and despair such as I had rarely knew.

_My word Watson_, he had said. And although Holmes had tricked and manipulated me in the past, merely in the course of his investigations of course, he had never broken his sworn word to me.

I hovered on the edge of indecision as the train began to move slowly, chuffing, sending more steam billowing over the now empty platform.

I hadn't the least idea what could have gone wrong, but I would not, I could not leave Holmes here.

So, for one of the first times of my acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, I broke my promise to him, opened the door and stepped from the train, the Italian gentleman did not even stir at my bizarre action.

I hit the platform rather hard and stumbled before catching my balance.

In an instant the engine had picked up speed and was making its way swiftly along the track.

I stared after it, breathing heavily, I would never catch it now.

My heart fairly leapt into my chest, when the stillness was suddenly broken by violent shouting. And I turned to see several figures mounting the head of the steps to the platform.

They most of them strong, ablebodied men, almost like bodyguards, or a guard of honor.

But one of them, the man at the head of the group…

He was exactly what Holmes had described, hunched forward with the attitude of a serpent intent on mesmerizing its prey. His high forehead shining in the early morning light.

His dark eyes settled on me with a snap and I felt a thrill of horror and loathing, stumbling backward as they lighted with a menacing fire.

"There!" he snapped out the half-said order, pointing at me with his stick, his mouth set in a cruel grimace.

His men started forward and I turned and for one of the first times in my life I ran with the pure and unbridled fear that some of my comrades and many of their mounts had shown on the battlefield of Maiwand.

Something had happened to Sherlock Holmes.

And I had to find out what…if I did not meet my end first.


	2. A Narrow Allley

**Given that this is based on the Granada television series, it is important to know that unlike in the book, Mycroft Holmes was not Watson's driver.**

I ran and did not stop running until I lost the sounds of pursuit behind me.

Without Holmes' carefully laid plans I knew that my only safety lay in spontaneity, so I took every crosscut and byway that I knew until I was almost lost myself.

Then I stopped to huddle in the shadow of a rather frequented bakery, breathing heavily, trying to calm my racing heart and organize my thoughts, which were still muddled in fear.

Holmes was gone…he had gone and now I was left utterly alone to face this hidden kingdom of perversion and crime which had been laid bare before me. I had not the least idea what I was to do or what Holmes' plans had been to defeat it. I had already been witness to its' extent and power and it made me tremble to think of it.

What had happened? What could have delayed my friend at the station?

My dazed and frightened mind gave me numerous reasons, each more terrible then the next. Holmes stricken by one of Moriarty's agents, by a cab, by the airguns he had so feared yesterday afternoon.

I imagined my dear friend lying shattered and broken in some unfrequented alley, bleeding his life's blood out to mix with the murky London filth.

No. No this would do no good! If he were dead then why would Moriarty find it so important to come after me? Surely he realized I would know nothing of the matter and could only be useful to him if Holmes were alive.

Abduction was the most likely, for who better then Holmes, than to disengage the traps that had been set to ruin Moriarty's empire of crime?

And if Holmes had been abducted then the last hope had gone for no one had the intelligence to strike at Moriarty the way he had.

I leaned against the warm bricks and lowered my head into my hands in despair.

Then at once I straightened feeling my heart race anew with a fresh surge of energy…and something even greater.

Hope.

There was one other who could oppose Moriarty…in fact Holmes had declared his intent to hole up with this man last night.

I pulled out my watch and glanced at the time.

If I was lucky I should be able to catch him before he entered Pall Mall, that is, if he was not already distraught by Holmes disappearance enough to cause him to disrupt the regulated rhythm of his life.

I did not dare to take a cab, lest it be one of Moriarty's men but walked instead, trying my best to meld into crowds and to keep into shadows.

Recalling Holmes' own experiences with the earlier attempts on his life I made sure not to walk too near to the street or the rows of houses and shops that I passed.

I had also decided to copy Holmes' method of entrance, for I had no desire to put Mycroft in any danger, nor that anyone should know where I was.

I was just traversing the alley between the rows of houses, grateful and fearful of the concealing shadows, when I felt the hairs stand upright on the back of my neck, and I turned to see a man, his face hidden, standing at the mouth of the alley.

It was not his presence that alarmed me though, for he was alone and I could surely take one man on my own.

What alarmed me was the large dog that strained against the leash he held in his hands, growling and snarling.

I gasped and backed away, swiftly reaching for the revolver that I had stowed in my pocket earlier.

I caught sight of the fellow's white teeth as he leered and realized with a shiver of apprehension, just how much worth Moriarty placed on my life.

If he was indeed intent on abducting me for some sort of leverage on Holmes, then the condition I arrived him obviously made little difference to him.

The man released the dog and it surged forward at once, already worked into a frenzy by its own futile struggles against the leash.

I fired, but my own exhaustion, and I will admit, fear of the beast caused me to shake enough to spoil my shot.

In another instant it was upon me, naturally drawn to the arm that held the gun it leapt and fixed upon the limb.

I shouted and fell back as its teeth sunk through my jacket and skin, borne down by its weight. Hitting the grimy pavement hard enough to rattle my teeth.

Pain ripped through me as it snarled and tore at my arm, shaking it violently within its' grip, causing me to lose my hold upon the weapon.

Blood and foam sprayed from the beasts' mouth and hit my face. I scrabbled at its' throat in an effort to make it release me, but the panic and motion of the dog made it almost impossible to find a proper hold.

It growled again deep in its throat and violently shook its head again, apparently intent on ripping my arm from me not just shredding it. Its' hot breath washed over my face and I choked and shouted trying to raise my foot to kick at it.

Where was the owner? Would he be clever enough to go for the gun? And if so would I soon be in Moriarty's clutches just as Holmes most likely was?

The thought drove an even greater fear through my heart and made me reach for the animal's throat again.

Grateful for the books that I had read on the management of dogs after the Baskerville case, (lest anything of that sort should occur again) I located a weak spot in the jaw besides the dogs' ear. I pinched at it frantically, trying to find a point of pressure, but it was one thing to read of such things and another to do them without practice.

I was lucky however for suddenly the dog yelped and I was able to pull my arm free.

I folded the bleeding appendage to my chest and rolled away from the animal as it came at me again, I scrabbled for the gun and felt the familiar grip of it beneath my hand. I brought it up just as the beast went for my neck.

Its teeth clamped down on my collar, grazing the skin of my neck and I brought the shaking revolver up against the creature's head.

I fired and the thing went almost instantly limp, my shot deadly even if it was not accurate.

Numbed from the pain by blessed adrenaline I rolled up onto my knees and aimed the owner. He stopped in his tracks, no doubt having started toward me the moment I got hold of the gun.

Another instant and he sprinted back the way he had come, vanishing around the corner before I had time to take any other action.

Not that I was in any condition to take action, I was exhausted and shaking not only from fear and exertion but no doubt impending shock and bloodloss. My arm was a roiling mass of pain and was staining my clothing.

But I could not stay here. Driven by the fear that was by now deeply instilled, I scrambled to my feet, using the wall for support, and thrust my arm into my jacket.

I needed help…and it was close by, I could not make it through the back window now, but it hardly mattered since they appeared to know where I was anyway.

I hurried as fast as I was able from the alley and the corpse of the dog, and slipped my revolver back into my pocket as I reached the main street.

It was only a moment's desperate sprint (an action which earned me several looks from passersby) to the front of Mycroft's flat.

Not wishing to remain in the open for a moment longer then was necessary I dispelled with pleasantries and slid in through the door without announcement.

I reached Mycroft's rooms knocked quietly on the door.

There was no answer and my fear compounded to the point that I forgot myself entirely and turned the handle, letting myself in.

I had taken no more then a few steps before a hand clamped down on my shoulder and something cold and hard was pressed into the back of my neck.

I froze, recognizing instantly the feel of a revolver barrel.

"I warn you sir," said a voice, "That I bear no compunctions about firing this weapon."


	3. Physician Heal Thyself

"Mycroft?" I breathed, using the liberty of his first name in my shock and relief.

The hand on my shoulder clenched in surprise and the revolver was removed. I turned round and a second hand gripped my opposite shoulder.

Mycroft Holmes took in my appearance at a glance and his eyes widened not only at my disheveled state but at the rapidly growing stain in my jacket, where I had stowed my arm.

"Doctor." He spoke in a voice that was far colder and tense than his usual, relaying anger and worry though none showed on his face.

"Mr. Holmes…" I ammended meaning to explain my abrupt appearance and my appearance in general, but it was at this moment that the shock and the pain of recent events, coupled with the sudden relief at finding myself in the reassuring presence of my friend's brother, took their toll.

I felt my knees grow weak and the color drain from my face. and in an instant the large man had pulled my good arm across his broad shoulders.

He led me to a chair and I not so much sat as collapsed into it, my breath coming harsh and fast from strain.

"…I…"

But my voice was far to shaky to continue and Mycroft motioned me to silence, going to his sideboard and pouring me a stiff drink which he then pressed into my hand.

"Drink that." he said firmly.

I took it and stared at the amber surface that rippled with the tremors running through my body and down my arm.

"Blast it all Doctor! Drink it before you fall over!" he snapped, sounding very much like Holmes.

Responding to his imperious tone, much as I did my friends', I downed the liquid quickly, gasping between gulps.

When I finished it, Mycroft took the glass then sat across from me, probing me with his far-away, grey eyes.

"Take a moment man." he said in a more controlled tone. "Whatever the situation, though I suspect I already know what has happened, you must be calm. You will do neither my brother nor yourself any good in this state. And I am afraid that you shall have to treat your own arm as it is extremely dangerous for you to trust any physician at this time."

I nodded, still unable to speak and held the aching limb, closing my eyes, trying to calm my nerves.

For several long moments I stayed like that, keeping pressure on the wound, and throughout Mycroft Holmes waited patiently not making a comment on my slothful recovery.

At last I raised my head with a slow breath and saw that he had not moved but observed me still.

Normally I would have been somewhat nervous to be the subject of this great mind's scrutiny, but right now I was beyond such cares. I was only just keeping the horror of my situation at bay, and had not even come to the full realization of what had occurred.

Seeing that I was not about to begin the conversation Mycroft began a round of steady questioning like his brother did with his clients, further helping me to concentrate.

"Sherlock never arrived at the rendezvous."

I shook my head. "How did…"

"My brother has confided almost everything to me Dr. Watson. I know that you two were due to depart for the continent this morning. It is obvious that you did not, and since Sherlock is not with you and considering that you would never assent to leaving his side in such dire straits, then it is evident he never arrived. You also came here under the presumption that he was here last night and might still be here."

I nodded.

"I am sorry to inform you Doctor that he is not here. He never arrived last night."

"You know about Moriarty?"

"I know a great deal about him, and about Sherlock's rather foolish vendetta against him. I would have locked my brother up myself had he not planned on disappearing to the continent. The most sensible move he has taken thus far, though involving you at all was not the wisest course of action. Selfish, sentimental fool." He lapsed into a scowl.

The idea that anyone, even his own brother would call Sherlock Holmes sentimental, or foolish was unheard of and rather humorous. I let out a small, weak laugh that was most unlike my usual conduct.

Mycroft's expression grew alarmed at the sound, for he knew as well as I that it was not born of comedy but a rising hysteria.

He poured me a second glass and pressed it into my hand.

I sipped obediently, mentally shaking myself for I had no desire to receive a bracing slap across the cheek. Not by a hand as broad as that of Mycroft at any rate.

"Where is he?"

"I think we both know the answer to that Doctor. Nothing short of captivity or mortal injury would have made him abandon you to such a risk as that."

"What are we to do?"

Mycroft sighed.

"First Doctor, we are going to care for your arm." He rose to his feet closed the distance and lifted my tattered limb carefully, his brows crinkling in thought or sympathy.

"What was it? A dog…yes, I thought it must be, too large for a terrier. What do you need to treat it?"

"Antiseptic," I said trying to empty my spinning head of thoughts and concentrate entirely on the familiar realm of medicine. "…hot water and cloths…and something to stitch it with."

He nodded and got to his feet moved to stow the pistol in his pocket.

He paused, noticing my gaze and waggled the revolver before concealing it. "Yes I thought I best to be on my guard Doctor, there is no telling with a man as cunning and so without scruples as Moriarty. Do forgive my reaction to your rather abrupt entrance."

"I'm sorry." said I, "I thought it best not to…."

"Quite right Doctor." He left his rooms and a moment later came in with supplies and a basin full of hot water which made my arm throb with longing just to look at, so grimy and inflamed did it seem.

But the task ahead of me was to be far from pleasant, and relief would only come at the end of it.

I positioned myself at the table, laying one of the towels underneath my arm so as to avoid the mess that would follow.

There were numerous lacerations and five rather larger gashes. I was infernally lucky that the dog had not gotten a proper hold or the damage would have been far worse, and I would likely not have been able to make him release.

I soaked another one of the cloths and first soaked my arm with it, sighing in relief as the hot water washed away the hot, sticky blood and the grit from the street.

When this was done I took the bottle of antiseptic and poured an amount over a third cloth. I hesitated for a moment, hovering the cloth just above my arms, then steeling myself and setting my jaw, I began to clean the wounds.

At first, all was fairly well, then I reached one of the larger gashes and the cursed liquid burned like molten metal. I snatched back my hand with a hiss and a small curse, flinching. The five lacerations were deep and I found that my nerves were not steady enough to continue with the procedure, I did not have the will to inflict more pain on myself.

But I had to, for as Mycroft has said, there was no physician that I would be willing to trust, or willing to pull into this danger. And I could not perform the procedure with a drug or morphine, even if I had been willing to take such.

One of Mycroft's large hands set itself on my shoulder, and the other took the cloth from my hand.

I closed my eyes, grateful and at the same moment dreading what was to come. I gripped the edge of my chair and waited.

At the second touch of the antiseptic to the wound I gasped and pressed my lips together, and at the third and fourth I made no sound, though my eyes watered and my own breath sounded harshly about me.

Mycroft finished and laid the cloth aside, watching me with concerned eyes and I breathed more easily.

"You'll forgive me Doctor…but I'm afraid I've never tried my hand at sewing."

I tried to smile, though the muscles in my face were dreadfully tight.

"Thank you Mycroft, I can do this next part."

He nodded and took hold of the arm, bracing it as I prepared the thread for the next part of the procedure.

"While you do, Doctor, I shall tell you what my brother has told me of Professor Moriarty. If we are to defeat this man, it would help you to be better informed."


	4. The Effects of Waiting

_**Holmes **_

"Amazing." the voice sounded, ringing with its condescending amusement.

I ignored it, seated on the edge of the low, passably comfortable cot, my head lowered into my hands.

I heard the owner of the voice lever himself away from the wall and pace to my left, his footsteps slow and measured. I could not see the supercilious smirk on his face, nor did I want to, but I could picture it.

"The world's greatest consulting detective. If you ask me Mr. Holmes you went down rather easily. That's what you get for trusting others too easily."

"When Moriarty told you to keep me company porter I'm certain he did not instruct you to keep me entertained as well." I said, bitingly, unable to keep my temper or my silence any longer.

Porter laughed and leaned against the wall again as I raised my head and fixed him with a venomous glare. He was quite casual and comfortable in his role as warden, it was little wonder that Moriarty assigned him to the task. He always chose the men best suited for each job.

"When may we expect the professor to return?" I asked in a mockingly formal tone.

"Oh now aren't we anxious?" Porter grinned. "Well he'll be a while yet Mr. Holmes…You're not uncomfortable are you? Would you like me to sent for anything? Food? Drink?"

"No I'm quite satisfied," I said, "Besides the obvious of course." I lifted my hands, revealing the Darbies on my wrists and the chain that attached them to the iron bar of the small bed.

My jailor's grin widened. "Of course. The Professor is a gentleman but you couldn't expect him to take risks could you?"

"No of course not." I said lowering my hands into my lap, and sitting against the wall with a sigh.

I had never been suited to waiting. I abhorred inactivity more than anything else, but this was infinitely worse…for I did not know what was occurring in my absence. What schemes Moriarty was putting into action…and whether Watson…

No. Watson had followed my instructions. He always did, to the letter, and this time would be no different. Even after I had been taken before I could meet him he would continue and was now safely out of London.

But he could have made his way back here by now, another part of my mind declared. In fact he would have, after arriving at the coast and finding me not yet arrived. He would come blundering back into London and begin to search for me, the loyal fool.

My wrists had begun to grow itchy and sore with the inevitable chafing of the manacles. I rubbed them absently.

For all his intelligence there was a certain simplicity about Moriarty's methods. Unlike so many criminals he knew that elaboration where it was not needed was more hampering then helpful.

So my prison was also simple, though he had taken most precautions. The small room I had awoken in was four bare, stone walls with a thick wooden door at one end, containing only a small iron bedstead that had been bolted into the floor.

I had, apparently, been thoroughly searched upon my arrival for my clothes were rumpled and bore the grimy handmarks of several of his henchmen, and my own search had revealed that all my hidden ecoutrements had been lifted.

As an added precaution I had been assigned a constant guard, who was replaced every four hours, putting an end to any attempts I might have been tempted to make.

Porter was seemingly bored of my company as well for he finally ceased his taunts and was idly examining the filth beneath his fingernails.

I closed my eyes.

How could I have let it go so wrong, with so much at stake?

There was no answer, and there wasn't likely to be one for a while, until Moriarty saw fit to pay me a visit.

_**Watson**_

It was dark when I jerked awake, gazing about me at the dim gaslamps.

Mycroft had left earlier that morning for Pall Mall and I must have fallen asleep on his couch after several dull hours of attempting to entertain myself.

it took me only a moment to realize what had awoken me. A slight scratching noise at the lock of the door to Mycroft's rooms. As quiet as it was my overwrought nerves had still heard it and on an instant I was on my feet, snatching up my revolver and leveling it at the door.

The scratching was not caused by the sounds of a key in the lock, but rather of some illegitimate individual trying to force entry.

My heart was racing and fairly leapt into my chest when at last there was a click and the door creaked open.

"Stay where you are or I shoot!" I called in a thankfully steady voice that rang through the sleepy room. There was a small yelp and someone, or rather something judging from its' size , ducked forward into the room behind the couch.

I stepped back not sure where to aim my weapon next.

Several tense moments passed then I spoke again.

"Who are you?! Show yourself!"

Very slowly, a head appeared over the couch…a very small head.

A pair of young eyes widened at the sight of me.

"Oi 's you gov! You gave me a right fright you did!"

The young piping voice was familiar and after a moment I had placed it.

"Alfie?!"

The lad emerged fully, his ginger mop of hair sticking up at all angles, his bright green eyes shining out of his pale face.

" 'Ello Doctor." He said cheerfully. "That's a nice wel'cum."

My legs went limp with relief and I collapsed heavily into the nearest chair.

The lad's brow creased in concern and he approached me with an almost comical air, as though I were a patient and he a prestigious, doting physician.

"Are yew a'right Doctor? Yew look downrigh' peaky ta me."

"I'm fine." I said impatiently though the boy hovered over to my right and stared dubiously at the bandage on my arm. "What…How..."

I trailed off, staring in credulity at his happy, cheerful countenance. The absurdity of his presence drove through my shock.

"What in heaven's name are you doing here?...How did you get in?"

The lad grinned and held up a twisted strip of metal for my examination.

"Mr. Holmes taught me while you were away on holiday."

"He what?!"

Alfie hid the picklock quickly on his person, sensing my disapproval.

"Don' worry Doctor, OI haven' been usin' it. Not much."

"But what are you doing here?" I took the lad by the shoulders. "it is dangerous, around me, around Baker street. You and the other boys are to stay away!"

His little brows furrowed again and he frowned.

"We t'aint afraid Doctor. and OI can' go yet, not till Oi've givn' you this." he reached his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a badly used envelope which he pressed into my hand.

I took it, it was blank, though grubb,y and marked with many small, sticky fingers. The imprint of a horseshoe proved it had even been run over at some point.

But with a thrill I recognized the paper.

It was Holmes'.

I tore it open and examined the familiar handwriting that covered the page inside.


	5. Sincerely Yours

_**Watson**_

_My Dear Watson_ ,It began.

I stopped looking to the young irregular in excitement. The lad grinned and rolled his eyes comically.

"Oi could 'ave told yew that Doctor. It'was Mr. 'Olmes wot giv'd it to me."

"When."

"Two days ago Doctor."

My heart feel somewhat, at the news that the note was old, but it was still better then nothing.

I got to my feet, closed and fastened the door that Alfie had left open, then switched on the gaslamps so I could read it better.

I settled myself onto the sofa and Alfie bounced up beside me, his hands full of rifled crumpets from the remains of my lunch.

_My Dear Watson, _

_I hope that you will never have occasion to read these lines, for if circumstances go as I plan then the danger will be passed before there is ever a chance of them being handed off to you. _

_If this does fall into your hands, then it means that I have badly miscalculated Moriarty and the opinion I had formed of his abilities, and that something untoward occurred in our escape._

_Whatever the results I pray you will do nothing rash. I have already explained to you, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that no possible__ conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this._

_My absence should in no way effect the traps that I have set out for Moriarty and his organization, there is one small thing you can do however._

_Tell Inspector Patterson that the papers which he needs to convict the gang are in pigeonhole M., done up in a blue envelope and inscribed "Moriarty." He has the competence to carry it on from here._

_I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you._

_I had already prepared for a possible end such as this, though I regret that you have had no time to reconcile yourself to the idea. I have handed everything to Mycroft, do give him my regards, and believe me to be, by dear fellow_

_Very sincerely yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes._

I lowered the letter in some despair, staring into the dead, blackened grate before me.

"Are yew a'right Doctor?" Alfie asked quietly.

I was too numb and cold with shock to answer, I had hoped that the letter would hold some helpful instruction or information that might lead me to Holmes. Not a farewell.

I jumped suddenly as a pair of small, skinny arms wrapped themselves around my middle and Alfie tucked his grimy head against my chest, squeezing me with what must have been all the strength his little form could offer.

I looked down at him and he met my gaze with his earnest green eyes.

"Don' you worry Doctor…Mr. 'Olmes must have a plan. And t'wot ever's the matter 'e'll see it right."

I sighed. and put my arm around the lads thin shoulders.

"Yes Alfie, he has a plan, but its' not exactly to my liking."

" 'S it dangerous?"

"Very…and it is Mr. Holmes who has put himself in danger."

The irregular released me and sat up.

"Then wot are yew waitin' round 'ere for?"

I frowned, "What?"

"Wot are yew doin' 'ere if Mr. 'Olmes is in trouble? Yew should be wiv 'im if 'ee needs your 'elp. Yew always are."

I almost laughed at the boy's fierce indignation and the simple clarity of his words.

Yes I should be…

"I don't know where he is Alfie."

The boy hopped down from the couch, stuffed the remainder of his crumpets into his mouth, and sprayed Mycroft's carpet with crumbs as he spoke.

"Well we've got to find 'im then." He declared swallowing the enormous lump and taking my hand to lead me to the door.

I pulled him to a stop, turned him around and put my hands on his shoulders.

"You are wrong on two counts my boy. You are not to be seen with me, I have told you already it is dangerous. If you or any of the other boys see me on the street you are not to come near, is that understood?"

Alfie scowled and opened his mouth to object but I cut him off.

"These men who have Mr. Holmes would not hesitate to kill anyone who got in their way, and right now they are after me as well."

The boy sighed impatiently as though I were the child and he the adult.

"If'n you say so Doctor, but then yew've got to get after 'im. Wig and the boys and me like workin' for Mr. 'Olmes. And we don' wan' nothin' bad happenin' to you or 'im."

I nodded.

"I shall go after him, but alone. We cannot go through the front door either, we are going out the back."

Alfie frowned and his scowl became concerned. In the slow voice that someone uses to reason with a madman he said. "Doctor…there ain't any doors in the back."

I smiled outrightly at this. "No Alfie there aren't, I was reffering to the windows."

The green eyes widened in amazement.

"Oi gov! You goin' down a bloomin' drainpipe!?"

I was not quite sure how to take this.

"Yes."

Alfie let out a very unchildlike snort and covered his hand with his mouth. He began to quiver with suppressed humor and little squeaks and snorts escaped him.

I sighed and turned to gather my ruined jacket and my revolver aware that at some point in the conversation I had actually decided that I was going after the papers he had described for myself.

They were the only lead I had. And if they were part of the reason Moriarty had kidnapped my friend, then I had to get them first.

For the instant Moriarty laid his hands on them, then the case surrounding himself and his gang would break down and Holmes would no longer be an asset, but a hindrance, and his life would mean nothing.

I turned back to the irregular, who had gained some control over himself, though he was very redfaced.

"Ready Alfie?"

He gave a little salute as Wiggins often did.

"The moment we are in the street you are to hurry back to wherever you came from."

"But gov, Oi came from the…"

I sighed. "Wherever you like then, just vanish. Understood?"

He nodded vigorously.

"Good. Come along then."


	6. Parlor Games

_**Holmes**_

_He was running, though he knew not where, only knew that he had to keep moving, for it was the only chance of catching up to his quarry._

_He stumbled on the wet slippery path and struck a large jutting stone that stood out into the trail. He ignored the pain that lanced up his side and continued. Just before him he could hear voices and a large roaring noise that filled his ears._

The pain struck me again and this time I jerked awake, my eyes snapping open and a slight groan escaping my lips.

I stared about the dim room in confusion, totally disoriented for a moment. I tried to raise my hand to rub at my face, and found it connected by a manacle to my other. At the same moment I spotted the guard looming over me and the recollection of the past few days struck me with alarming clarity.

I had fallen asleep curse it! And my guard, this one a less talkative fellow with a barely developed cranium, had kicked me awake.

One glance at the door told Me why and I sat up quickly, trying to fix my face into its usual implacable mask.

A second man stood in the doorway, a fellow with a high forehead and a large moustache that bristled over his lips like the whiskers of a great cat.

I could tell at once from his bearing and the signs on his clothing and hands, who he must be.

"Cl. Moran." I said, "I know a great deal of you though we have never actually met."

The old shikari fixed me with a lethal stare that was quite as menacing as the professor's, though violent and stormy rather than lethal.

"Johnson, unlock him." He ordered curtly, ignoring me. "The cuffs will be enough."

I held out my hands so that 'Johnson' could detach the chain that held me to the cot. Once this was done I rose to my feet and turned to Moran, intent on cutting with some insulting remark or other.

I was met with a severe cuff that made my head ring and sent me back onto the bed, I could feel blood running down my chin from my newly split lip.

I had no time to recover from my disorientation before a hard hand gripped my arm and hauled me again to my feet.

I blinked around at the darkness of the narrow hall we had entered.

"No blindfold?" I asked petulantly.

"Be quiet and quick and make it easier on yourself," Moran growled in my ear pulling me along as I stumbled on legs that had been inactive for too long.

"I'm touched by your concern," I said.

The Colonel refused to be baited but only picked up his pace, forcing me to match it.

I considered pressing his tolerance, but saw that it would hold little advantage for me and would possibly lead to further injury. Moran was one of Moriarty's more renowned men, I would even go so far that there was no man more dangerous in London then he. Save for Moriarty himself of course. He was not an easily manipulated individual, and was also known for his violent temper and a somewhat bloodthirsty nature that he had developed during his campaigns in India, where the only law was that of the jungle and a man's own personal justice.

It did not take us long to traverse the hall and we came quickly to a set of unpolished, wooden steps that led up no great distance to yet another door.

Moriarty had certainly chosen an idea prison, with little potential for escape.

Moran put a key to this new barrier and pushed me through ahead of him, into a room that was exceedingly bright in comparison to the dank quarters we had come from.

I blinked and caught a quick look of what appeared to be a kitchen or scullery before Moran dragged me abruptly to the left, leaving me no choice but to follow or be dragged off my feet.

We traveled through another hallway, this one rather pleasantly furnished, and out into an open sitting room with large windows that would have supplied the place with a pleasant glow (from either the rising or the setting sun I had no way of knowing) had they not been covered by thick drapes.

The room, the hall, and even the cellar which had been inverted to a prison cell, were all rather commonplace as were the trappings within them. They might have belonged to any London gentleman of moderate fortune.

If we were still in London.

Out of habit I glanced at Moran's boots and was relieved to recognize the mud that lay, still wet, upon their soles.

Yes we were in London, the faint street noises filtering in from outside confirmed it.

This then, must be one of numerous outposts or safehouses, kept by Moriarty, not unlike the small crannies and rooms that I kept in reserve throughout London, ready with any supplies and fresh disguises I might need.

His was bigger of course, and better outfitted, but then I was working on a limited amount of funds.

When we reached the room Moran released me and took a step back, his arms held loose and ready at his sides, lest I try anything.

My attention was drawn to the center of the room, where sat the hunched figure of the professor himself, his dark eyes flashing with menace as he glared at me.

The revulsion and cold nervousness that had assailed me the first time he had disrupted my flat at Baker Street threatened to seize me now.

I brushed it aside, reining in all my faculties. Now was not the time to give in to such weaknesses.

A heavy silence filled the room, one that Watson would have taken a great deal of enjoyment in describing, it satisfies me to say that it was an almost tangible presence, as tense as one of the strings on my violin.

Moriarty did not remove his eyes from me, and I fixed him with my own gaze, Moran forgotten. His face was set in a disapproving scowl that threatened to break into a terrible rage at any moment.

Sighing so slightly that I barely caught the movement he waved me to a chair.

"Sit down, Mr. Holmes."

For a moment I hesitated, Watson's voice rang unbidden in my mind with what, I imagined, his own response would be to such an offer.

_I would prefer to stand Sir!_

I felt the quiver of a laugh rise within me but squashed it at once. Now was not the time for humor either.

I sat.

Moriarty continued to scrutinize me, until at last he settled back in his own chair, his view and manner taking on the condescending and rather patronizing tone he had displayed earlier when describing my own small talents, as though he were an older brother and I a rebellious sibling.

At once I felt a longing for my own brother Mycroft to be present. Perhaps if I had involved him in this sooner then…but No. This was not Mycroft's battle and though I was certain that his own intellectual powers rivaled and most likely surpassed that of my foe I could not involve him, it was too late anyway.

"You have caused a great deal of difficulty Mr. Holmes." Moriarty said without ceremony.

"So you predicted I would." I said in an equally cool voice, I may not be as vocally indignant as Watson but I still disliked his condescending air.

"Your captivity has not mellowed your humor."

"Rather increased I should say."

Moriarty glared and I schooled my face to stone, there would be nothing gained by showing emotion.

"And how do you find your accommodations?"

"Surprisingly comfortable, I have been in bleaker holes. And the issue of my captivity leads to another question entirely, namely why you are bothering to prolong my existence at all if you find my actions so meddlesome."

Moriarty leaned forward in his chair gripping the arms of it with his long, clenching fingers which called to mind the legs or fangs of a spider.

"You are the one who can best answer that question Holmes, though you fail to see the connection."

"I do, perhaps you would be good enough to enlighten me?"

Moriarty smiled now though the expression was bereft of goodwill.

"Perhaps we could test your talents on a version of one of your favorite parlor tricks Holmes, you already have the first link in your line of deduction, I shall give you the last and we shall see if you can deduce for yourself the missing links."

His smile widened and in spite of myself I felt my face heat in anger.

"We are holding you here because you have a file of incriminating evidence on me and my deputies."

He looked positively joyful as the inevitable astonishment spread across my features.

"Fill in the blanks Mr. Holmes."

How…How?

My mind raced with a thousand possibilities and scenarios.

There were in realty only a few ways such a closely guarded secret could be discovered.

There was of course the note that I had passed to one of my irregulars but not even Moriarty could have ascertained that, I had not been watched at that early stage.

That left only myself, Mycroft and Patterson who knew of the existence of the file…

It was beyond thinking that my brother would be so careless of such an important matter.

But Patterson…there was every possibility that Patterson had seen fit to ensure that his men knew of the file, at least the most important of his men.

But how then would he have found out?

How would he not?

I already knew that Moriarty had a hand in Scotland Yard, he would be a fool not to. Despite all my caution it was entirely possible that one of Patterson's men was in reality one of Moriarty's.

That would even help to explain his sudden actions against me.

That must be it.

And as I raised my head to face him with this conclusion I saw the answer of it in his self-satisfied expression.

Yes, he knew, and would no doubt take precautions against the traps Patterson and I had laid for his gang.

But the danger of the file still remained, and he was holding me to get it.


	7. Wanted: A Blue Folder

_**Watson**_

"Whatchoo waitin' for gov?"

I bit back a shout of alarm and whirled to see Alfie standing behind me in the narrow alley, where I had been keeping my watch on the back of our flat for several minutes.

The fear and anxiousness that had been gathering in my chest surged forward with this additional worry, for I had thought the lad well on his way by now.

"Alfie!"

He smiled.

I took hold of his collar and my grip was hard because of my fear, I shook him, and growled in a voice quite unlike my own.

"I told you to stay away from here!"

Alfie stared in surprise at my vehemence and furious glare, he tried to wriggle out of my hold.

With a shock of realization I let him and dropped my hands hastily.

The boy backpedaled and gave me a rather hurt and wary look.

I felt my face burn with regret and shame at my treatment of him. But how else was I to get him to understand the gravity of the matter?

He did not leave but continued to watch me with the look of a loyal dog that has been kicked by his master.

I turned away, to view the street again, trusting that he would leave.

It was finally dark enough, I should be able to slip in and out of the flat in time and make my way back to Mycroft's.

"Doctor?" Alfie's voice trailed worriedly into my hearing and for once it sounded tense and frightened, as though my own fear had finally gotten through to him.

"Get out of here Alfie." I whispered, preparing myself for the dash I was about to make. "Go. It will be alright."

I did not wait to see if he obeyed me, but instead pelted across the street for the back window's of the first floor of the building that held our flat.

I stopped when I was at last hidden in the shadows of the house and examined the windows.

They were all shut and locked…should I follow Holmes' example and knock on them to attract the attention of Mrs. Hudson?

A noise from the other side of the street decided for me. There was no time and it was likely they were watching the back of the house anyhow. Speed was my only ally, better to move quickly and leave our good landlady out of it entirely.

I used my elbow to knock in one of the windows and reached for the latch with my good arm, trying to avoid the ragged edges of the shattered glass.

After a slight strain to my shoulder I got it and was able to push it up, slipping through.

The house, even the bottom floor which Mrs. Hudson occupied, was unusually dark and still, and I waited a moment, expecting to hear her cries of alarm at my rather noisy entry.

But there was nothing.

I traversed the hall to the front and there found my answer.

Her coat, hat and scarf were all gone, as where the spare keys she left in the shallow dish on the hall cabinet.

She was gone, probably on a impromptu holiday. Of course Holmes would have taken precautions for her safety.

This lightened my anxiety slightly and I hurried up the stairs towards our rooms, clutching my revolver, my ears pricked for any sound.

_**Holmes**_

"Out of respect for your talents Mr. Holmes, I am offering you another chance to drop this affair. I have already made preparations to thwart the traps that you and your Scotland yarders have set to capture me and my organization."

I was hard put to keep rein on my emotions as I glared at the professor who looked quite satisfied with my reaction and was now on the verge of gloating.

"Rest assured that on Monday next your nets will close on empty air. You are undone."

His tone softened and he leaned forward with a look that was no doubt meant to be kindly, his soulless eyes ultimately ruining the effect.

"There is nothing for you to gain by continuing this." He reasoned.

I glared coldly at him.

"You would have me hand over to you several months of work?" I asked. "That I have laboriously gathered."

"It it the only course you can take." Moriarty said sternly, dropping his kind pretence at once. "The documents will do you no good…and keeping their location from me may cause you a great deal of grief."

I laughed.

"Surely you know that nothing you can do to my person will persuade me Moriarty, I have already told you that."

"And well I know it."

Moriarty got to his feet and turned to view some work of art on the wall, his thoughts not really on the picture.

"Which is why you have not been harmed during your stay here, there is more than one man here who would take great pleasure in physically persuading you."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Moran shift slightly, but I refused to look at him, such a glance would only indicate fear.

"No it is not your own hide you need to worry about Mr. Holmes…there are others, whom I believe you would give a great deal to preserve."

I stiffened and feeling rage, helplessness and terror all fighting for possession of my composure.

"Your brother Mycroft knows of the location of the documents…I learned that from Patterson's man…but I cannot touch him as well you know. Such an action would bring the government to my doorstep."

He turned to look at me, and this time I had to repress a shudder as his maleficent face lit up with a cruel smile.

"It is another of whom I speak, one that we have already attempted to take."

I clenched my hands, feeling the nails dig into my palms, my stomach attempted to curl in on itself in protest of the thought.

"Watson."

_**Watson**_

I pushed open the door to our sitting room and breathed out in relief at the stillness I found inside.

Without hesitation I made my way over to Holmes' desk and located the "M" pigeon hole.

There it was, the ominous blue folder that held the keys to bringing down the malevolent organization of professor Moriarty, the collection of Holmes' greatest work.

I snatched it up hastily and was about to secret it in my coat when I came to the realization of the state of my clothing.

Best I grab a few things while I was here.

I took the folder and my revolver with me and made my way up to my bedroom, where I hastily shoved a few things into my valise, grabbing my medical bag as well. I tucked Holmes' folder in with my things and removed my soiled jacket and shirt.

I was just pulling on fresh ones when I heard the first noises from downstairs.

I froze in the act of doing up the last of my buttons and listened. Perhaps it was just my overwrought imagination.

It was not. There was a distinct clatter then sounds of footsteps upon the stairs.

I shrugged into my jacket and picked up the two small bags, clutching my revolver in my right hand.

I peered out of my bedroom and down the stairwell to see several shadowy figures with lanterns moving about.

I was effectively trapped and becuase of my lack of foresight I would not only deliver the papers right into Moriarty's hands, but myself as well.

I was a fool.


	8. Price

_**Holmes**_

"Attempts." I heard myself retort coolly, "You have not succeeded in taking him, or he would be here and I have no doubt you would be more than happy to allow the Colonel to try his gentle persuasion on him."

Moriarty's eyes smoldered, but his expression did not change, an implacable mask.

"You are quite correct, the good Doctor is not yet my guest, but he should be soon, and it is not for lack of trying."

My heart continued to beat a staccato rhythm against my ribs, making my blood race in apprehension and my breath come more swiftly. These effects I could not hide from Moriarty and his eyes regained their triumphant gleam.

"He evaded us at the trainyard, but one of my men encountered him a few hours later, with his dog. Your Doctor is a very level-headed man Mr. Holmes but not quite quick enough."

I swallowed and opened my mouth to speak, shaken out of my façade of control.

The fiends had siced a dog on him? What sort? what damage had it done? Surely not too much for he had apparently gotten away. And had they prevented Watson from boarding the train or had my foolhadrdy friend leapt from the compartment at the last moment?! Such an impetuous action was not beyond him, in fact it was very much in character.

I became almost physically ill with the thought that Watson was holed up somewhere in London, hiding in a vain effort to evade his pursuers, bleeding his life's blood away and horribly maimed by the teeth of a vicious dog.

"There is time." Moriarty went on, seeing the effect his words took on me. "To call off his tormentors Mr. Holmes, before further damage is done. And in exchange for your cooperation, I will see fit to let the two of you continue your lives unmolested."

I looked up at him, torn, his arguments nearly swaying me for once…these threats were so very different from the conversation we had had not long ago in Baker Street. The stakes were too great.

"We can both go our separate ways. There is no need to continue this case, and no reason to cross paths in the future." He had approached me during this lecture and by this time stood at my elbow.

He leaned in in his particular reptillian fashion, his black eyes shinging with a terrible, unfeeling light.

"_Drop it_, Mr. Holmes."

_**Watson**_

I perched on the edge of the steps, hardly breathing, torn between retreating to my room and barricading my door, and making a break our the front door.

Had they followed me from Mycroft's flat?

I laid down my valise and medical kit, clenching my hand on the banister in an effort to control the fear that had swiftly grown into a state of near panic.

I could not stay here, such a feeble defense would not hold out long, and the papers had to be taken to Patterson.

That was essential. The papers must make it to Patterson and so I must get out.

I opened my valise and slipped the folder from it, folding it and stuffing it into the inside pocket of my jacket. If I was to make a run for it then I could not be encumbered by more than my revolver.

The chamber was still nearly full, only one bullet spent in the killing of the dog.

I glanced down at the landing and saw that the men had disappeared into the sitting room.

That was no good at all, for after they had discovered that I was not in the sitting room they would surely search all the others until at last I was trapped at the top.

I could run for it, they had completely vacated the landing and in the darkness I might just be able to slip past.

But there was something else, something that niggled at the back of my mind with such a draw that it penetrated the cloud of fear.

It was as though Holmes himself were present and instructing me to; be calm, to think and observe what my mind had already perceived.

I crouched down beside the baseboards in an effort to see and hear better.

They were speaking in low voices, and there was no rapidity in their movements, no sounds of toppled furniture or breaking glass.

It was as though they were making an effort to be stealthy, as though they were thieves in the night, not men bent on a manhunt.

Was it possible that they were not after me? That Moriarty had somehow discovered the existence of the papers?

Or were they here on a common errand…merely a sweep of Holmes' rooms in the off chance that they might find something?

Whichever they surely did not know that I was present, which meant I still had a chance.

A flush of excitement rushed through me and I was about to turn back to find a suitable hiding place to wait out their search…when another odd occurance reached my senses, which were overwrought enough to detect more then they usually capable of.

Smoke…

They were not searching for the papers. Moriarty did not necessarily need them. He merely required that they be destroyed.

And rather than go to the tremendous trouble of sorting through Holmes' mountains of documents and files…they were going to destroy everything in one blow.

They were going to burn down the flat.

_**Holmes**_

"Come come, Mr. Holmes, surely you had time to consider the matter during your hours of captivity. For every moment you delay the circumstances against Doctor Watson become more dire. I instructed my men to bring him here but I did not specify in what condition. Better that the job is already half done when he arrives."

In the instant Moriarty finished his comments I was on my feet, my mind clouded with rage and terrible guilt at the thought of Watson not only captured but of his being harmed by cold, heartless men like Moran, and the other villains employed by the professor.

I did not have time to express my disgust and hatred however, before The colonel hands latched onto my shoulders and I was shoved back into my seat, where I remained, physically quivering with anger and emotion.

How could I have been so foolish, so selfish as to involve him in the first place?!

_But he was already involved_ The cool part of my mind insisted, _he is associated with you, the whole world knows of his value to you since his blasted stories had been published!_

I could have done something. I could have sent him away.

_He would not have gone_.

I wanted desperately to say something, to somehow vent my frustration as Watson did.

But such displays would not impress Moriarty, nor have any impact on his none-existent heart. He dealt solely in cold meticulous intelect and irreproachable honor.

There was only one thing I could do to preserve Watson's health and possibly his life.

And I could not do it…not even for Watson could I destroy the one chance that the world had to dispose itself of the likes of Professor James Moriarty.

I would have happily accepted my own destruction for such a prize.

But Watson's…

Such a man as he was the farthest from deserving such a fate. Never had I encountered a man as kind and charitable as he, so deserving of a good life.

Such a man as he would never thank me, for buying his life at such a price either.

If I was to accept Moriarty's terms then he would learn of the price I had paid…and that would destroy him just as surely as a gun or knife…or the fangs of a dog.

I was still trembling, but no longer with mere anger. It was with disgust…for Moriarty…for the world which must be preserved at such a terrible price…and for myself…a cold unfeeling wretch who could allow himself to make such a decision.

I lifted my head once more to meet Moriarty's gaze and I saw the hatred in his eyes at my expression of resolution.

"'My answer…" I said in a ragged and loathing whisper. "…has already crossed your mind."


	9. A Gamble

_**Watson**_

I stood undecided and shocked at the revelation that Moriarty's thugs were attempting to destroy the flat that Holmes and I had called home for a good many years now. Surely I could not just leave and allow them to burn it down.

But neither could I attack them outright, delivering myself into their hands in the process.

And more importantly there were the papers themselves! With the destruction of the folder Holmes' months of laborious effort in tracking and trapping Moriarty would come to naught, and if Moriarty believed that the papers had been destroyed then Holmes' value to Moriarty would plunge faster than water from a fall.

I could creep unseen from the building and get the papers safely to Mycroft and Patterson before I was apprehended thus ensuring the demise of Moriaty's organization, but that would mean leaving both the flat and far more importantly Holmes to face the wrath of Moriarty alone.

What was I to do?

I rubbed my aching temples with one hand, the other clutching at the bulge in my coat where the folder was hidden.

I knew what Holmes would say, he would have few compunctions about giving up his life for his cause…he had even expected it! He had accounted for this eventuality, leaving the note with Alfie. Why had I not recognized this morbid turn in his speech and manner for what it was? Only too late, I now realized that Holmes had most likely expected to pay the ultimate price for the destruction of his greatest enemy. And like some doomed knight errant of legend had cast his gauntlet before the dragon never to return.

And he called me the hopeless romantic, when he participated in such a foolhardy and ridiculous scheme.

No, I could not allow him to do that.

But neither could I face him if I let his work fall into the hands of these villains, he would never forgive me of such an action.

And I would never forgive myself if anything happened to him.

Surely there was a way to preserve both Holmes' life and the papers?

They would have to see me, it was the only way, and then I would have to outrun them.

It was a terrible risk, but there could be no half measures. I was not willing to lose either Holmes or this case. It was all or none.

I gripped the reassuringly solid handle of my revolver, still warm from my previous use of it, then I drew the folder deliberately from my jacket and descended the stairs as the first clouds of smoke began to drift from the sitting room.

I felt some slight elation at this action, even as my heart seemed to be thudding wildly in my very throat. To be taking action, any action against this unstoppable gang, this invisible menacing hand of Moriarty's was satisfying in the whole, and what better way to disrupt the professor's well laid plans and neat web, such as Holmes had described them, then to do something that was totally illogical.

Despite these thoughts I was hardly calm, and as I reached the last steps I felt almost ill at the apprehension that raged through me.

What if I was caught? What if I delivered the papers right into Moriarty's hands? What if…

I shook myself mentally. No, no I could not afford to think of that now, not when I was about to take one of the riskiest gambles of my life.

The smoke was getting thicker, and I felt a pang at the idea that our Baker street apartment was about to be damaged, possibly ruined, but I compared to the papers I held, and the man's life that depended on their survival, it was of little consequence.

I could hear voices, intermingled with the crackling flames, callous voices that joked and mocked Holmes and myself, and the fact that our home was soon to go up in flames, that our very possessions were about to be destroyed. I swallowed down my indignation and nausea, using it to feed the nervous energy that I would need just a moment, and I stepped deliberately into the doorway of the sitting room.

There were four of them, common enough looking thugs with no distinguishing features to set them apart and one of them spotted me at once, pausing in his action of stoking the overstuffed fireplace.

His pause alerted another fellow who was building a fire out of stack of Holmes' papers just beside his desk.

This one straightened and as he did the other two also looked.

I took advantage of the moment of surprised silence and raised my revolver.

"Put out the flames." I said softly.

There was another moment of silence, this one rather more incredulous than surprised and the thin fellow beside the desk spoke.

"Now why would we be wantin' to do that Dr. Watson? It's not wise to disobey the professor's direct orders…is it lads?"

"I have what the professor wants here." I said, holding the blue folder aloft, causing the thugs' eyes to light with a possessive gleam. "Destroying this place will do you no good…put out the flames."

No one moved at my directive, their eyes remaining on the folder, I stuffed the folder back inside my jacket and cocked my revolver and spoke more forcefully.

"Put them out or I will shoot!"

The tall fellow grinned.

"You're pretty confidant aren't you Dr. Watson? Which one of us are you goin'ta shoot? Or do you think you can take down all four of us before we tackle you?"

I tried to remain stony-faced as the truth of his words sunk in. I could not take all of them down…and if they cared more about obtaining the folder then possible bodily harm then I was in dire straits indeed.

I had no power over them, and the small flames were beginning to take, in a moment they would become a legitimate fire.

I realized with a sick drop of my stomach that I had to give up the flat, I had to run for it.

But how?

All these thoughts passed through my mind in mere moments though it seemed like much longer to me.

I needed a distraction, and thanks to Holmes' untidiness there was one readily at hand.

The detective's chemical table lay directly within my line of fire, and his collection of solutions and bottles stood haphazardly atop it.

Feeling very much as though I were Brutus plunging the knife into Ceaser, I aimed for the more flammable collection of chemicals and fired.

The bottles shattered as my bullet tore through them to imbed itself in the wall opposite, reminding me almost mockingly of Holmes' patriotic VR.

Three of the villains spun at the sound, and it was only a moment before the chemicals caught and the table became a veritable inferno.

The fourth, tallest villain, who had done the speaking, reacted instinctively and dove at me on impulse. I also reacted as I had been trained to do years earlier in the military and fired.

He went down with a cry, clutching at his shoulder and his companions turned to him in surprise.

I took advantage of their temporary uncertainty and tore down the stairs to the landing and the front door.

Once outside and across the street I raised the call of fire and was gratified to see several of the neighbor's relight their lamps, stick their heads out of their windows and peer anxiously at 221b and the figures that were staggering out of it after me.

One pointed and shouted hoarsely, coughing from the smoke and inferno.

I took this as my cue and ran for all I was worth, turning my back on Baker street for what I could only pray would not be the last time.


	10. Trapped

_**Sorry It took me so long guys, but my summer was pretty busy. Now that my schedule has settled down again you can expect regular updates. The plot-bunny is biting again.**_

_**Watson**_

I continued to stumble along long after my legs had turned to jelly and my lungs burned with the effort of running.

It seemed essentially hopeless, I was exhausted, both emotionally and physically, my hands were still shaking from the ordeal that I had just faced and I was fairly sick to my stomach with the thought of Baker street and the damage I had caused to it, the reality that Moriarty's thugs would have caused the same damage to it anyway brought no comfort. My arm hurt abominably and had grown red and swollen, my eyes and throat stung with the smoke of the fire.

And worst by far…I was alone.

There in my hands I held the key to unraveling one of the greatest criminal organizations in history, but that same organization held hostage someone I considered to be of far more value, staying my hand, and preventing me from leveling them.

And I was cut off from all assistance as well…for, supposing that I even had a way of reaching Mycroft and inspector Patterson, I had no way of knowing what their actions then would be…whether or not they would share my views of Holmes' life against this folder…whether or not they would go through with it despite Moriarty's threats.

No, I could not chance it, I would not, not with Holmes' life at stake.

What then was I to do? The idea of my arranging and executing a bargain with Moriarty was laughable, for both he and his rival were at another level intellectually, one which I could never hope to match.

I stopped at last leaning against the cool brick of a building, leaning on it as my legs threatened to give way beneath me, gasping for breath that seemed not to come.

One question rang again and again through my head.

What now?

There was of course no answer…only the distant barking of dogs in the darkness…the tolling of a bell marking the hour as two-o-clock.

Blazes…what I would give only for a place to rest for a little while…

I froze again, adrenaline surging through me and adding strength to my limbs as the sound of footsteps reached my ears.

I fumbled for my revolver with shaking hands, only to pause in confusion as two figures appeared at the around the corner of a building, silhouetted against the gas-lamps…two _small_ figures.

They were walking without stealthy intentions, though they were both so slim and light on their feet they probably would have gone unnoticed anyway.

As they drew near the taller of the two turned to look behind him and gave a sharp whistle.

"Oi! Bill! Charlie! Over 'ere!"

I winced at the volume of the loud piping voice and felt a new wave of dread, what the blazes were they doing here? And had I really been that easy to trace?

Two additional figures joined them and listened attentively to their leader.

"You found 'im!"

"Cor, Bill, wot else do you fink Oi'd call yew for? Yew go and tell the others they can 'ead back now, Charlie yew stay wiv' us."

Like any soldier of her Majesty's army 'Bill' gave a sharp little salute and took off at a run back the way he had come, the second remained, a stouter lad than the others, his faced fixed watchfully on the street before us.

I straightened with some effort and tried to catch my breath as they swiftly approached.

At my fierce scowl the smallest of the trio hung back, almost sliding behind the form of his captain, eyes fixed wearily on me.

The tallest drew up to his full height, nearly five feet, and smiled at me. "Yew alrigh' Doctor? We nearly lost yew."

"Wiggins," I began, fixing Holmes' chief irregular with as firm a look as I could.

The imperious little street urchin held up a hand and shook his head. "It's no use arguin' Doctor. Alfie 'ere already told me wot yew said."

"Then why are you not listening!" I snapped, "This is not a game…and what do you mean 'almost lost me?' How long have you been following me?"

"Mr. 'Olmes told us ta follow yew since 'ee got back from the Con'inen'."

Holmes…of course…I would strangle him…that was if I ever saw him again.

"You have to leave." I said. "I'm not safe."

"An' that's just why we're goin' to 'elp yew Doctor." Wiggins insisted, brushing his black locks back off his forehead. "Yew look righ' knackered."

I let out a growl of frustration and rubbed a hand wearily over my face. "What will it take to make you leave this instant Wiggins?"

Wiggins considered for a moment, sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and then folded his arms.

"Just abou' 'er Majesty's 'ole bleedin' army Doctor."

Alfie and Charlie nodded at this resolution, and I gazed in despair at their immovable young faces, sure and completely singleminded in their purpose.

They were far more resourceful on the streets of London than I, and I had absolutely no chance of shaking them. And even if I could, this small troupe of boys held the word of Sherlock Holmes to the same standard that most citizens of the empire held the law. If the detective had indeed told them to follow me, then follow me they would, until they dropped with exhaustion.

A long look at Aflie's tentative and slighty hurt face was the final straw. The only thing I could do was make it easier on them, and stop running.

As much as I was inclined to think of them as children I needed to remember that life on the streets had hardened them, and gave them a wisdom beyond their years…even with the help of Holmes' coppers. And I was not so unfeeling that I was not touched by their dogged loyalty.

I let my shoulders slump in exhaustion and defeat, and then, pocketing the blue folder I knelt and beckoned to Alfie.

The lad shot forward to wrap his arms about my neck, sniffling against my collar.

"Yew can be a roigh' bungler Doctor." The lad reprimanded me and I was inclined to agree with him. I had done a splendid job of bungling up my part in this affair so far.

A moment later the Alfie released me and pulled away grinning and tugging on my coat.

"Come on Doctor. We know a safe place."

A saying crossed my mind, something about the wisdom of children,

With a sigh of resignation and a prayer that my impromptu and exceedingly young guardians would not come to harm, I followed.

_**Holmes**_

Moriarty was a man whose whole soul was devoted to power and control, and he sought to gain that control through his own intellect. Never before had I seen him resort to violence where intellect would suffice.

This did not mean that he was above hiring henchmen who held very different philosophies than he.

And Moran was chiefest among them.

It was evident that he was under orders not to cause me any real damage. But any good bully knows how to cause discomfort without lasting or visible effects.

All through the interview with the professor I had been aware of the rage and hunger in the old tiger-hunter's eyes.

And now as he marched away from the room and back towards my prison I could sense that same tension in the very hold he kept on my arm.

No sooner had we reached my prison then he dismissed Johnson and latched the door behind his lackey.

Even with this advanced warning I was not prepared for the blow that struck like a hammer just above my stomach.

I collapsed onto the cold stone floor as the air rushed from my lungs, my head spinning wildly, gaping in a useless quest for air as the blow had stunned my diaphragm rendering such action impossible.

The torment did not end with that alone, a booted foot connected with my left kidney, sending spasms of pain through my side and sending me into a wild spin onto my stomach.

In an instant and with two accurate blows I had been rendered completely helpless, I could only there gasping for air and twitching in pain, unable even to tell in what direction the ceiling lay.

At last my muscles unfroze and I was able to choke in a breath of the foul, dust-polluted air, my head cleared and the agony from my side faded to a dull throb.

A hand cut through the confusion that surrounded me and seized me by the collar lifting me to my feet,

Moran's tanned face and chill blue eyes filled my vision and he hissed at me, bearing all of his teeth in a feral snarl.

"It does not end with this Mr. Holmes." He said, "the professor will get his hands on that folder one way or another and you will have lost your only opportunity to save your stinking hide."

I choked in a measure of air and tried my utmost to glare back at him.

"Don't be so certain…cl…"

He growled, and with one subtle shifting of his feet he had me up against the wall and this time choked me with his own thick arm against my throat. Even as he cut off my strained gasp I felt a natural fear at the feel of it, all sinew and muscle, like the hardened limb of the great cats he had hunted.

I don't think I have ever been so aware of my own life as I was at that moment, with my breath burning in my lungs and the blood pounding in my ears. He could end it quite suddenly and quite easily, with just another inch of pressure.

"The Professor may hold some fancy toward your sneaky clever mind." He said only an inch from my increasingly cloudy vision. "But he will become bored with it soon enough and then I will have the personal pleasure of snapping your skinny neck with my own hands."

He released me abruptly and I collapsed again, choking and coughing violently, gazing up at him with watering eyes, my skin slick with the cold sweat of fear.

He smiled in some little satisfaction and then turned to the door before adding something else, casually as though in passing, though it made my very blood turn to ice.

"You needn't worry about the Doctor, I shall see to him myself."

He opened the door and beckoned Johnson in.

"I think Mr. Holmes could use a drink, Johnson." He said cooly, "He seems to have suffered a dizzy spell."

And then he left, closing the door firmly behind him and leaving me crouched on the floor of my simple, impenetrable prison, my heart beating against my ribs like the useless wings of a moth trapped in a spider's web.


	11. Catching Cabs

_**Watson**_

"Doctor…"

I opened my eyes at once as the youthful voice reached my ears, for being a medical man, and having shared a flat with Sherlock Holmes for several years I had become accustomed to sudden awakenings.

The first thing I saw was a thin grimy face and a pair of bright blue eyes, upon seeing me awake the irregular, whose name I believed was Tom, grinned and sat back.

"'Ow'd yew sleep Doctor?" he asked.

I sighed and rubbed a hand over my gritty eyes, trying not to take notice of the dull ache in my arm or the incredible stiffness of my limbs from the irregular activity of yesterday.

My good arm was completely numb, and a quick glance revealed why. Alfie had fallen asleep with his head on my shoulder, and now he lay curled up beside me, still fast asleep, his eyes tightly closed and his ginger hair standing up in wild tufts.

"S'bout time yew woke up Doctor." Tom continued, "Yew 'avent moved since your 'ead 'it the floor."

I sat up slowly, being careful not to disturb Alfie for the lad had had an exhausting time of it yesterday.

"What time is it?" I asked, glancing about at the irregulars cozy, if somewhat humble, abode, the corner office of an unused warehouse, one among many of their hideouts.

The boy reached a hand into his tattered jacket and pulled out a handsome silver pocketwatch, which I chose to overlook.

"'s 'alf past nine Doctor."

"Where's Wiggins?"

"Well 'ees out doin' the same we've been doin' since them blighters snatched up Mr. 'Olmes. 'Ee and the others are out lookin'."

This last remark sent a surge of adrenaline through me, banishing any last shreds of weariness.

"You're searching for him?"

"Wot else would we be doin' Doctor?"

I refrained from swearing, but only just.

Tom sighed knowingly, "Wig said yew might curse a bit Doctor. But its no use arguin', Mr. 'Olmes is our friend. And we're goin' to 'elp wevver yew loike it or not."

I certainly couldn't control a dozen street urchins single-handed, though if I could I would have had every one of them locked away somewhere until this was all over.

I ran a hand through my very untidy hair wearily, trying to think what my next step should be. I was half tempted to return to Baker Street to see the extent of the damage, but chances were that Moriarty was having it watched for that very reason.

"Doctor." Tom spoke again, more eagerly than before, I turned to him.

"I'ss wot I woke yew up to tell yew…we've found somethin' 'bout Mr. 'Olmes."

At once my heart began to pound in my chest and I gave the lad my full attention.

"What?"

"It was Pete wot found it, Doctor. Ee's been ridin' the cabs as 'ee's the fastest runner."

Riding the cabs referred to the practice of young boys running and catching hold of the back of a handsom and riding it until he was able to leap off when it came to a stop or until the driver noticed him. It was exceedingly dangerous and Holmes himself had warned the boys against doing it but it seemed that some habits, such as pick pocketing, were harder to break than others.

Tom noticed my disapproval and sighed again in exasperation.

"Pete's always the one to ride, Doctor, 'ee's the best at it, and some of the drivers, they don't mind coz 'ee 'elps them wiv the 'orses."

Now was not the time to argue this, and the lad's stubborn expression told me that I would get nowhere if I tried.

"D'yew want to speak to Pete or don't'choo?"

I got to my feet and Tom nodded approvingly. "Show me then."

We were delayed somewhat by Alfie awakening and bounding up at once to join us, his eyes bright and eager and showing no ill effects from yesterday's events.

"Oi Doctor! You're not goin' anywhere without me." He declared, placing himself firmly at my side.

"What about your grandmother Alfie? Won't she be worried about you? You didn't go home last night."

Some of the irregulars, in fact most of them, were not fortunate enough to have relatives and actual homes, but Alfie's grandmother, a maternal woman from Germany, whom I'd met once or twice, made a decent living as a seamstress, enough to support her grandson at any rate. Alfie's involvement in the irregulars was more of a interest then a need for extra funds.

The lad bit his lip and considered a moment, but then shook his head and the smile was back in place once again. "Oi've been out all night with Wig and the others 'afore Doctor, If oi don't come home she know's oi'm with 'em."

"Alright then," Tom said, glancing in amusement at the younger boy. "If you're so sure of yerself Alf, yew can show Dr. Watson to Pete, Oi've got to go tell Wig anyhow, he and Bert are up the river."

"Seeya later then," Alfie said, opening the door to lead me out. "Oi'll take care of the Doctor."

I did not know which was more amusing, the idea of this ragtag group acting as ranked individuals in an army or that they were taking it upon themselves to look after my safety. They really did spend too much time around Holmes.

Pete was one of the few irregulars that I never seen before, but he was easy to spot among the shadows of the narrow alley outside the warehouse, even without Alfie's guiding finger.

The reason for his occupation as the group's cab-runner was immediately made clear by his long-skinny legs, almost stork-like in appearance, and making him seem taller than he really was. The rest of him was fairly gangly as well, though one had to assume that he had strength in his arms and a firm grip considering what he did all day.

He looked to be a year or two older than Alfie, with a pinched face and brown eyes. A thatch of extremely unruly sand-colored hair topped him off.

"Pete," Alfie chirped, "This here's the Doctor, Doctor this is Pete, 'ees our cab-runner."

Pete scratched his head and nodded, shuffling his feet a little.

Alfie sighed and turned to me with a conspiratorial look. "Ee's a bit quiet Doctor. Hard to get a word our of 'im, even round us…"

"Oi Alf!" the lad suddenly piped up, his voice high and thin. "Oi can talk for meself!"

Alfie scowled, "Well why don't you then? 'stead of leavin' the Doctor standin' 'ere?"

The lad met my gaze finally shuffled his feet again and said. "Pleased ta meet ya Doctor. Oi…Oi saw somethin' wot might find you find Mr. 'Olmes."

I smiled, hoping that my friendliness might help the lad relax a little. "I'm grateful for any help Pete, what was it you saw?"

"A bloke Doctor, wot was gettin' in a cab on beech street, I was 'elpin one of my mates to brush down 'is 'orse and somethin' 'bout the toff made me notice 'im."

The irregular fiddled nervously with his hands for a moment then went on.

"Oi didn't loike the look of 'im anyhow, so when he got into one of the waitin' cabs I dropped my brush and caught a ride on the back."

I sighed, unable to help myself, "That Is very dangerous you know."

Pete sniffed, "Cor, Oi know it Doctor, oi've seen enough accidents with lads that were less quick 'n me."

It was difficult to argue when there was no disagreement to be had. It seemed I would have to let it drop for now.

"Go on."

"Anyways, 'ee tells the cab to go as quick as the 'orse can take 'im to the Calvert Road. And the bloke whips up 'is mare and we went off."

He had stopped fidgeting by this point, lost in telling 'is story."

"We got there quick as you loike, and then the bloke got out, paid the driver and lookin' really shifty 'ee 'eaded for a print shop just 'cross the road."

I frowned confused. "What made you think he had anything to do with Mr. Holmes?"

The lad ran a hand across his brow nervously then went on in a quieter voice. "Cause of wot 'ee was wearin' on 'is sleeve Doctor. Those little bobbles you gents like to put just there."

He pointed to the cuffs of my shirt and his meaning at once became apparent.

"His cufflinks?"

"Roight Doctor, those, I got a good look at 'em when he pushed past takin' no notice of me…and Oi realized that oi'd seen 'em 'afore."

The lad swallowed and went on hurriedly, growing excitable as he finished.

"They was Mr. 'Olmes cufflinks sir."

The boy's declaration seemed to hang in the silence that followed it and I found it hard to keep my heart from racing in anticipation. And the boy waited nervously for my reaction.

"How did you recognize them?" I asked at last.

"I saw 'em the day 'afore yesterday, Mr. 'Olmes was wearin' em, when 'ee wants a good Cabbie, loike 'ee did then, 'ee sometimes asks me to 'elp coz I know some of em sir. And he came that day and asked me."

Of course…when Holmes had arranged the mysterious cab to take me to Victoria Station…I would not put it beneath one of Moriarty's more careless thugs to help himself to some of my friend's personal effects when taking him captive.

And if he had helped to capture Holmes, then he had to know where they had taken him.

The sheer luck of this situation was enough to lift my spirits, and I was filled with a sudden, driving determination as I proceeded to question the boy.

"Peter, do you think you could find that shop again, could you take me to it?"

He nodded eagerly, a slight smile lighting his pale face as he realized his clue had been well-received. How well received I doubt he knew.

"Oi can Doctor…but do you think that's wise? They're after you too aren't they these blokes? If they see you there…"

"We'll have to be careful." I said. "But if you can recognize the man again then there may be a chance he'll lead us to Holmes."

The irregular nodded resolutely and Alfie piped up at once. "We're game Doctor."

"Aflie." I turned to the younger boy. " I want you to stay here."

The boy's face fell and he opened his mouth to argue, I cut him off with an upraised hand.

"Alfie, if I do not come back then I need someone to go to Mycroft Holmes' house and tell him what has happened, It is of vital importance."

The small irregular sighed and folded his arms.

"You're startin' to sound loike Mr. 'Olmes."

"Aflie…"

"But oi want to come with…"

"Please Alfie."

He scowled then nodded slowly.

"Alright Doctor."

"if I'm not back by tonight Alfie…get one of the other boys to go with you, Wiggins if you can."

Another reluctant nod.

I sighed as his head bowed in obvious reluctance…then something else occurred to me.

Reaching inside my coat I extracted the much battered blue folder and handed it to him.

He looked up at me with wide eyes and took it…he knew the importance of the folder, having seen what I went through to get it last night.

"But Doctor…"

"I want you to hide that Alfie, hide it and don't tell anyone but me and Mr. Mycroft Holmes where to find it…if I'm not back by tonight I need you to tell Mr. Mycroft Holmes where it is…can you do that"

That way, if I was also captured then at least Mycroft and Patterson would be able to bring down Moriarty's organization, I had to allow myself a little time at least, for I felt certain that if the folder fell into the hands of the officials to soon then Moriarty would no longer have a use for Holmes.

Another nod, slower as he gazed down at the folder with a sort of reverence, gripping it tightly with his grubby fingers.

"Yes Doctor."

I gripped his shoulder again and rose to my feet. "Good lad."

I turned to Pete who was hovering anxiously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Come on then."

Alfie still stood as we hurried off, and just before we turned the corner into a deeper alley I heard his small voice call after us.

"Good luck, Doctor!"


	12. The Hunters

_**Because there was such a delay in updating this story, I realize that a lot of the plot points have been forgotten so I thought I'd add a little recap to help answer some of your questions. **_

_**The premise of the story is that Holmes failed to show up at the train meant to take him and Watson to the coast and then to the continent, causing the good Doctor to stay also. **_

_**This is how things stand now:**_

_**The meticulous plans of inspector Patterson and Sherlock Holmes to capture Moriarty and his gang have all been discovered and the professor has taken counter measures to prevent them, thanks to an insider posing as one of Patterson's men. **_

_**Holmes has subsequently been captured by Moriarty and is now being held by his first lieutenant Moran. Moriarty is holding Holmes in the hopes that he will tell him the location of the blue folder containing all the gathered information that could convict him and topple his organization. **_

_**For this same reason Moriarty is trying to capture Watson as well, though he certainly holds the good Doctor in lesser value. **_

_**Thanks to a note from Holmes, delivered by the intrepid irregular Alfie, Watson got the folder before Moriarty's men burnt it, along with the rooms at Baker Street. (note: Mrs. Hudson is of course safely out of the way)**_

_**Watson's dilemma now is what to do with the folder…if he gives it to the police or Mycroft (who would undoubtedly use it for the greater good) it could lead to Moriarty's downfall, but if Moriarty discovers that they have the folder Holmes value essentially plummets. **_

_**So it's the downfall of Moriarty or Holmes' life, and Watson has chosen in favor of the latter before pursuing the former. He has given the folder to Alfie with instructions to take it to Mycroft as a last resort and is following up the only lead on Holmes he currently has.**_

_**Hope that makes things a little clearer. **_

_**Watson**_

The thought of a disguise had occurred to me but I had not the knack for it that Holmes did, even if I had been able to act convincingly…and being not only short of material but also funds, the only disguise I could conceive of would be one of poverty and the streets…and I was quite certain that that would be the first thing that Moriarty's men would be on the lookout for.

My best chance would be to stay entirely concealed as much as was possible, out of sight out of mind as the saying went.

Luckily for me, the irregulars had a veritable wealth of alleys and byways at their disposal, and though I was fairly certain that I broke several laws of trespass, and scraped up a great amount of skin, I soon found myself at the edge of Culvert Road, surrounded and relatively safe from the thick crowds.

I stayed in the shadows for a moment, trying to catch my breath and calm my nerves somewhat…it certainly gave me a greater appreciation of how Holmes himself had managed to evade Moriarty's clutches at the first, and he had not had the help of our street urchins.

Peter crouched beside me, hardly out of breath himself, his eyes fixed steadily on a neat little shop across the way, cut off from us by a large stream of traffic, offering further chance of concealment.

"There it is, Doctor." The lad whispered. "'Ee went just in there not two hours ago."

"You don't see him anywhere?"

He peered out, craning his neck slightly then sat back. "Not from 'ere Doctor, but I can't see inside the windows from 'ere…should I go and 'ave a look?"

I hesitated, the irregular had not been recognized and if he moved with the crowd…

I shook my head, my conscience immovable on this matter, I would not send a child into that kind of danger…not even for Holmes, and it was unlikely that Moriarty would have allowed anything of importance to be left in view of the window's anyway.

"No...if he's still in there the he'll have to come back out sometime, and then we can try to follow him."

"And wot if 'ee's gone already Doctor?"

"Well, we'll just have to wait and see. If he hasn't showed his face in two more hours, we'll think of something else."

Pete looked doubtful, but sat himself down beside one of the crates in the alley, where he was concealed, but could still keep the door of the shop in sight.

It was an admirable hiding place the boy had found us, just beside a poultry shop, apparently a new shipment of some bird had just been delivered, and the crates that we now crouched behind, having been haphazardly in the alley, had obviously been used to transport them…at least, that Is what I deduced from the smell and consistency of the droppings.

I settled myself beside the boy, and prepared to wait.

In truth…if our man did not show his face then I was not at all certain what we should do afterwards…this was the only clue so far, and it had been obtained with only a great deal of luck.

I could only hope that our luck would hold for a little while longer and that he would emerge…

He had too…he just had too.

_**Holmes**_

I started in apprehension as the door to my prison creaked open again…it had been several hours since the interview with Moriarty, and because of a severe lack of windows I had no way of knowing what the hour was.

This had a severe drain on my spirit, for without a way to mark the passage of time I had lost the last vestiges of control over my captivity, I was entirely at the hands of my captors, even by the passing of hours. What with the chloroform earlier and the despair that distorted and elongated my sense of time, I felt truly lost.

The only interruption to the very long and dull hours was the occasional opening of that door…and usually it was not for a reason that I relished.

I knew at once that this occasion to celebrate either for the door opened to reveal the menacing countenance of Moran, his eyes shining with a particular glint that sent a chill down my spine…a glint of satisfaction…of pleasure.

He said nothing, but only met my wary scowl with a serenely smiling face as he stood looking at me, obviously amused by my predicament and obvious frustration.

After a moment of observation, he lifted the guard's chair and approaching me he set it down squarely in front of me before seating himself, his powerful, able hands clasped before him.

"You know." He said at last, his voice almost casual, addressing me as one would a friend in causal conversation. "I didn't agree with the professor's methods in your case, I thought he was foolish to let you live and foolish to trust that you might have the intelligence to consider his offers. When I learned that he intended to keep you down here I thought he had finally gone too far…but now that I see what effect it has had on you…I have to admit, that it is satisfying to see you brought so low."

"I'm glad to have eased your conscience somewhat." I sneered, "No doubt you've been chaffing at the leash Moriarty has on you."

Giving such a retort, to a strongly-built man with violent tendencies, while one is handcuffed to an iron bedstead, was most likely the stupidest thing I could do…but his words had hit too close to the heart of the matter for me to remain silent. I was low, lower then I could recall having been in a long while.

Just as before there was no warning no exclamation, only a slight growl as one of those large brutal hands, struck me hard across the face, sending me sprawling back onto the bare mattress, the entire left side of my head ringing with the effect of it.

It was a moment before my vision cleared and I was able to focus on the Cl. who now loomed over me, his former serenity lost in a storm of anger and indignant rage.

I thought it best to remain prone, though I could not stop a slight smile from forming. "Now now Cl. the professor won't be pleased if you damage me, as you've just pointed out, he went to a great deal of trouble securing me here as his guest."

Moran, breathed heavily for a moment, his moustache bristling, then with what looked to be an immense amount of effort he unclenched his jaw and his fists and straightened.

"Oh you are clever aren't you Mr. Holmes? Baiting me with that obnoxious tongue of yours…anything to break the monotony. Believe me, there is nothing I would like better than to stop it for you…but the professor is right, that is not the sort of treatment that will break you."

"You and Moriarty have both underestimated me Moran. Don't think I'll break so easily."

"Perhaps."

Moran reached slowly into his coat, the slow cruel smile growing once again on his face. "Here's something that may help…the reason for my visit."

The object, wrapped carelessly in a piece of tarmac, landed on the mattress beside me, Moran watched as I reached out and tugged part of the cover off to reveal an old book, pages worn with use, sides and cover badly scorched by flames…

It was one of Watson's journals.

I only just bit back a gasp and as cold dread shock spread through me. I looked up at Moran, to see that he was satisfied with my reaction.

"What have you done?" I gasped, uncaring of the horrified tone of my voice. He knew perfectly well how this would affect me, and I did not have the heart to mask my reaction with fruitless illusions of a calm that was the farthest thing I felt.

It satisfied him all the more and his smile widened, he folded his arms comfortably.

They could not have Watson…they couldn't…

They couldn't. As my brain at last caught up with rampant emotions I realized this was exactly the case…if they had Watson they would lose no time in using him to persuade me to reveal where the folder was…and if he was dead…

Evidence of his death would be far more painful to me than a burnt book.

"The professor wanted to be certain you were not concealing your evidence at Baker Street." Moran said, even as my wildly pounding heart began to slow to its normal pace once again. "It is a problem you are so untidy Holmes, or else we might have been able to look through your papers to find it, my men were forced to take more drastic action."

They had burned Baker Street. I felt a momentary pang at the thought of the damage to my home…but this was greatly dispelled by the relief that Watson remained out of Moriarty's clutches…in truth, I did not think he would be able to last this long.

And now that the folder had been destroyed there would be no point in pursuing him…the loss was a great one, but I could not say that I was not relieved to have the choice taken from my hands. There would be other chances to bring Moriarty down…

I ran a finger briefly over the charred cover of the journal, then covered it once again with the cloth.

"So, you're purpose has been achieved Moran. The folder is destroyed…what do you intend to do with me now?"

I glanced up at the Colonel…and frowned as I saw his face fall slightly at this statement, a reaction that he was not quite quick enough to hide.

I felt a smile tug at my own lips.

"Someone got to the folder first...before the fire was set..."

My words brought no great reaction, only a slight tightening of the jaw.

I snorted in disbelief as realization struck me, "_Watson_ has the folder." Alfie had gotten my letter to him and the impetuous man had not only gotten to the folder first, he had managed to evade Moriarty's men! Moran did not disabuse the theory.

"Great Scott." I leaned back against the wall, enjoying Moran's silence as his own intimidation fell back in on him. "I must say Moran, not even I expected my biographer to be so resourceful…having a difficult time catching hold of him are you?"

"Rest assured Mr. Holmes…it is only a matter of time before I lay my hands on him. I have hunted greater game than he in jungles far worse than this one." The Colonel growled, muscles on his face twitching with suppressed anger.

"Oh but that is just your problem Moran." I said softly, leaning forward. "You and Moriarty underestimate me…but you underestimate Watson far more…Even I cannot comprehend his limits."

Moran laughed, without humor, turning to the door and reaching for the handle. "Enjoy the remainder of your stay Mr. Holmes…I have other business to attend to."

"One more thing Moran."

He stopped, glanced back over his shoulder.

"You may have a well earned reputation for your exploits in India…but Watson faced and survived more in his short expedition than you can have hoped to in all your years there."

His shoulders quivered and for a moment I thought I was going to be subject to his fists once again…then he called in the guard and strode from the room, closing the door behind him.

I took some satisfaction in relating his retreat to a dog with its tail between its legs.

Now my only fear was for Watson…surely he would have the sense to take the folder directly to Mycroft and secure his own safety…once it was in my brother's hands then he would be of no more use to Moriarty.

_Please old fellow…use your head before your heart for once. _

_**Watson**_

The sun was well overhead now, and my eyes had grown dry and gritty from continually watching the door of the little printing shop.

Pete had slumped against the wall, not only weary but obviously bored for he had begun to scratch out marks on the wall with a scrap of metal.

He sighed, raising his head to give me a pitiful look.

"Doctor, Oi don't think 'ee's comin' out."

I sighed and shifted, trying to dispell the numbness that had taken over my legs.

"Doctor?"

"We have to wait a little longer Pete, this may be Mr. Holmes' only chance."

The boy frowned impatiently and hugged his knees, rocking impatiently.

I looked back to the shop in time to see the door open once again.

I straightened peering through the crates to get a better look.

"Peter come here."

The boy got to his feet, and came over, any excitement gone from his slumped soldiers, he looked to where I pointed…and his eyes widened as the straightened suddenly.

"Doctor! That's 'im!"

There could hardly have been a more ordinary looking man, dressed as a man of middle class, his coat clean but obviously having been repaired many times, his hair slightly longer than was fashionable with larger sideburns.

And yet Pete had been correct in his estimation of the man, there was something about him, something shifty about his face and purposeful in his stride. As thought he felt himself to be above the rest of the others around him.

I patted my pocket to make certain of my revolver and got to my feet, going towards the back of the alley.

"We have to cut him off."

"Roight Doctor, follow me."

Pete hurried down the passage ahead of me, taking a sharp right. I followed just on his heels, climbing over more piles of trash and ruble as I went, keeping my eyes on my young guide.

After a few moments of sprinting he stopped not far from the mouth of another alley…this one closer to the edge of the street.

"We can just see where 'ee's going from here Doctor." He said peering around the corner again.

I waited with baited breath until the boy turned back to me and jerked his head.

I stepped towards him…and froze when the lad let out a sudden squawk of surprise and tried to skip away as a hand, followed by a strong arm suddenly snatched at him.

He managed to wriggle free as a figure came into view, filling the entrance of the alley, shadowed effectively by the brightness of the open street behind him.

I drew my revolver at once, fixing it upon the man's head.

"I warn you sir I am armed." I said, as the irregular ducked out of sight.

The fellow made no movement, only stood watching…peering over my shoulder.

I whirled round, in time to see another figure coming up behind me. He stopped suddenly at my movement.

"And so are we, Doctor Watson," he said, "Put down your gun."


	13. Well and Truly Caught

_**Watson**_

"I warn you sir, I am armed." I said, as the irregular ducked out of sight.

The fellow made no movement, only stood watching…peering over my shoulder.

I whirled round in time to see another figure coming up behind me. He stopped suddenly at my movement.

"And so are_ we_, Doctor Watson," he said, "Put down your gun."

I stepped back towards the wall of the nearest building, trying to keep both of them in my sights. The man who had spoken also had his gun drawn and had it pointed straight at my chest, his friend waited on my other side, his hands loose and ready.

"I will not." I said, trying to keep my voice steady, my hand at least did not waver. "I will fire first."

The man took a slow step forward, his own aim just as constant. "And then what, Doctor? You not only have a revolver aimed at your heart, and I am an excellent shot I warn you, but my friend there is equally capable and he would have you before my sorry corpse hit the ground."

I swallowed nervously as my bluff already fell short. Did none of Moriarty's men have a sense of self-preservation?!

"You will also bring the occupants of that little shop across the street down on your head. No gun can fire within half a mile of this street and they not know about it. If you fire, and even if you manage to evade us, they will cut you off before you get ten yards…and there is every possibility you will be shot, perhaps fatally. I warn you, Doctor, _do not_ fire that weapon."

His last words were heavily punctuated, and he brought them home with the deliberate cocking of his own revolver.

My heart was beating far too rapidly in my chest, making me short of breath as the need for oxygen increased, I was very aware of the sweat on my palms.

"Drop the gun, Doctor."

I couldn't…I couldn't give in just like this…not after all that I had managed to evade so far.

"How will my chances be any better if I do?" I gasped.

"You will be alive."

"_He_ wants me alive anyhow. What use would I be otherwise?"

"You will be in better shape then."

I swallowed again, my throat increasingly dry, and still I could not.

My thudding heart nearly leapt into my throat as there was a sudden violent crash just behind the man. He turned at once just in time to dodge a large and thick sheet of metal as it toppled off a large pile of other scrap and landed with a screech onto the stone.

"RUN DOCTOR!"

Peter shouted from behind the pile, his face white and perspiring beneath the grime.

I ran, not towards the boy but in the opposite direction, towards the first fellow who had not yet recovered from his shock. I knocked him aside with a shoulder, thanking heaven for the Rugby I had played in school. I leapt over a shattered piece of furniture, skidded in some unknown filth, and drew almost even with the light that cut through the darkness just ahead…

There was a yelp behind me. I turned on my heel to see that the fellow with the gun had caught up with the irregular and now had him by the collar.

My hesitation cost me dearly as the unarmed man caught me up swinging at my head.

I dodged the blow, giving him one of my own in the stomach, fixing my eyes back on the boy's predicament.

He struggled in the man's grip, eyes wide with terror, but the fellow had a strong hold on him, lifting him nearly off his feet as one does a wild and disobedient terrier.

I saw this in an instant before there was another blow from my opponent. This time it caught me a glancing strike on the cheek. I brought up my revolver, he struck down my right arm, I could not refrain from shouting as his hand struck against the wounds.

The gunman began to drag the Irregular down towards us, trapping the thin arms with one of his own.

I blocked another blow, drove my fist into a soft spot just below the man's ribs and turned to level my revolver again at the villain holding the boy.

"Let him go!"

"Put the gun down Doctor!"

I fired, and winged the man, managing to avoid Peter who broke free as the fellow clutched at the graze in his arm.

The gun was knocked from my hand and a steel grip closed over my bad arm, twisting it behind my back making me gasp in pain, my eyes watering.

Peter was gone, vanished down one of the alleys that crisscrossed with this one.

The man I had wounded straightened, his hand still clutching his arm, he bent and gathered up my revolver along with his own.

He pocketed them, and approached, his face twisted in a painful glare.

"I would advise you not to struggle, Doctor." He said, "Jeb…"

His friend twisted my arm again putting a stop to any resistance then with a practiced movement slipped a pair of darbies on my left wrist with his free hand before tugging my injured arm towards the other and securing it as well.

Only then did he release his excruciating hold, gripping my upper arms instead, leaving me almost faint and gasping for breath, an unsounded moan of pain on my lips.

"Come on, quickly."

The leader led the way down the alley at a rapid clip, my captor followed, dragging me along with them. To my surprise we did not head toward the shop but took a turn to the left, going down a narrower alley to the street on the other side of the row of buildings.

They kept up the pace, pulling me along as I stumbled, until we came to the end to yet another alley. Here they paused, peering out at the larger buildings that bordered the street, warehouses and such, as well as the carts and other vehicles. If they wanted to remain unseen this was indeed the direction to go, for there was a distinct lack of foot traffic.

I considered calling out briefly, but the moment I opened my mouth to try and do so 'Jeb' released one of my arms and clapped a hand over the lower half of my face.

"Don't Doctor." He hissed in my ear, his voice thicker and less educated than his leader. "I wouldn' fancy your chances if you did."

"Right, Jeb." The other man turned from his post at the entrance and beckoned. "I see the cab. Keep hold of him."

I felt him nod and with a shake of warning he released my mouth taking my arm again.

"Come on."

He led the way again, ducking out of the alleyand striding casually but rapidly down the street. Jeb pulled me along behind, keeping myself between them, until we drew level with a closed hansom, and they shoved me in, leaving me to land rather hard against the seat. There were a few whispered comments between them and then the leader climbed inside pulling the door shut behind him.

With a lurch the hansom started off, I fell back, gritting my teeth as I struck the seat again.

The abuse to my arm had furthered the damage, leaving behind the sensation of fire playing over my skin…additional warmth made me suspect that some of the stitches had come undone and when the warmth ran down my arm and dripped onto my hand it was confirmed.

My captor took hold of my good arm and hauled me up onto the seat opposite him. I did not acknowledge this strange act of kindness, turning my face into the leather of the seat, trying to get a hold on the pain and my raging nervousness and frustration that had my nerves on end.

I had failed Holmes, after all the effort that I and the irregulars had put forward I had been stupid enough to march right into the heart of things.

Of course they would keep an eye on their own shop and the activities that went on around it, it had been only to easy to corner a child and a wounded man.

And where were they taking me now?

I could not, did not even try to suppress a shudder at the thought. I was helpless, at the mercy of the most depraved mind in all of London, and the use of the dog on me the first day, as well as the burning of Baker street had already revealed how few scruples he had to reveal my ends.

The only individual who could have possibly gotten me out of his hands was Holmes…and he was already a captive. I had meant to rescue him myself and I had failed him utterly. I now had only to join him.

It was some little comfort that Alfie had the folder and would, as soon as Peter reached him, put it into the hands of Mycroft Holmes. Holmes' elder brother may not be able to spare his sibling or me, but at least he would be able to make certain that we had not perished without a reason.

How would Moriarty react when he discovered I no longer had the folder…both Holmes and I would be useless to him, no longer assets but hinderences and stumbling blocks…to be done away with as quickly and efficiently as…

I could not finish the thought, my stomach rolled and I thought I might be ill as the hansom lurched and shook, passing over a rough spot in the road.

My captor said nothing only kept his hand on the gun in his lap, peering occasionally out of the covered widows, a bloody handkerchief tied roughly over the graze on his arm.

I watched him, with increasing anger, not only at my predicament but also his seeming indifference to the matter.

"At least have the decency to tell me where you are taking me," I spat finally, my voice unavoidably thick and heavy with pain and fatigue…and I am ashamed to say an undercurrent of fear.

The man, who was extremely thickset, with a lowbrow and thick jowls that reminded one of a bulldog, spared me a glance before looking back to the window.

"I can't tell you that. I suggest you sit back and wait, Doctor."

The cab was moving at a rather rapid rate otherwise…

I slumped back in my seat again, shifting as the derbies pinched my wrists.

Otherwise what? I would overpower him, wounded and with my wrists fastened behind my back and then leap from the cab?

The thought was absurd, but I didn't feel like laughing. The result was a shuddering breath that might have risen into hysteria if at that moment the cab had not begun to slow.

It turned, shifting both I and my captor in our seats, he gripped the revolver again and straightened expectantly in his seat…and at last the hansom rolled to a stop.

The door was opened from the outside by the driver, an old fellow who peered at the interior of the cab from beneath bushy brows, he frowned at us, and addressed the man with the gun.

"And who is this Mr. Samuelson."

"A guest, Neilson…is it clear?"

"As clear as can be."

"Right." the gun was pointed toward me again. "Step out, Doctor…and mind you don't make any fuss about it. I can promise you there is no one around here that will answer you."

I hesitated, considering the worth of putting a struggle against the possible damage to myself. A second later I got to my feet and climbed out of the cab…the only things I had left was a shred of dignity and my somewhat battered health…I should hang onto both for as long as I could.

Squinting in the suddenly bright light I found myself standing in a small courtyard lined with private houses, all in good repair and solidly built though most looked to be extremely old and old fashioned, as though they belonged to nearly a century earlier. The bushy-browed thug stood looking at me, hunched over beside his horses and just behind me stepped 'Mr. Samuelson'.

"Take care of the horses Neilson. But keep them in harness, Jebediah may have need of you soon. This way, Doctor."

He took hold of my left arm and walked swiftly toward the nearest of the houses, his hand on the gun in his pocket, casting the occasional furtive glance over his shoulder.

We mounted the old and exceedingly worn steps to the ancient oak door, which he opened at once and pushed me inside.

The interior of the house was older than the outside and poorly kept, with sheets draped over a great deal of the furniture and a centimeter of dust over everything else.

Samuelson closed the door behind him, and seemed to relax slightly once it clicked shut. He pocketed the gun once again and pulled me down a hall past ancient side-tables and forgotten portraits and landscapes until we came to another door…this one free of dust, its tarnished handle glimmering with recent use.

Samuelson released my arm at last, and knocked on it.

A voice sounded on the other side, calling for us to enter…I swallowed, feeling my palms sweat, and could only hope that I would see Holmes soon at least.


	14. The Informant

_**Watson**_

Samuelson opened the door and stepped through, pushing me in front of him.

The room was a study, lined with bookcases, and two curtained windows that I assumed looked out over the small courtyard we had just entered through.

A man, younger than Samuelson by some years, sat behind the desk, his head resting on his hand as he scribbled away at a pile of papers.

He looked up upon our entry, revealing a clean-shaven, angular face underneath a covering of short blond hair, with sharp dark eyes. Those eyes showed a keen intelligence…and I had little doubt that I was facing one of Moriarty's subordinates.

The eyes widened as he caught sight of me and he straightened abruptly, fixing his gaze on Samuelson.

"Great Scott…"

"I know sir." Samuelson said quickly. "I wasn't expecting it either, it's a stroke of luck we found him. "

His superior spared me a second, appraising glance, then he turned back to his lackey.

"Lucky indeed…Moran's been searching for days." He rounded the desk and surprisingly enough had the decency to address me directly.

"Doctor Watson, at last we meet."

A number of sarcastic retorts, gathered over years of association with Holmes, came at once to my mind, but I did not have the spirit to voice them. I was exhausted and sick with my own failure and the freshly damaged wound in my arm; even as I stood I had to close my eyes to avert an attack of dizziness.

There was a sharp voice, and strong hands gripped my arms again, lowering me to a chair. The derbies were removed from my wrists and I brought my hands forward with a groan to rest my head on them, listening to the voices of my captors.

"He seems a little to have suffered some abuse in getting here Samuelson. What the blazes happened?"

"We had no choice; we were following Montague outside the shop, and lo and behold up pops this bloke, right smack in the thick of things."

"I see by your arm he was not taken so easily…he fired a shot?"

"One of the reasons we had to leave so quickly sir, they would have been down on top of us if we hadn't."

Confusion cut through the nausea…_they _would have been down on top of _us?_

"You could have been more persuasive…surely this was not necessary…you know how I like a clean job."

"That at least wasn't our doing sir…that wound on his arm he had already."

"Ah...yes…Moran told me about the dog. Boasted of it rather…he trains the things himself."

I was thoroughly confused now…far more than I was ill. I raised my head to meet the young face which showed a certain curiosity as he considered me.

"I did not realize your arm was injured, Doctor. It needs treating."

I looked at him in confusion, partly because I did not have the ingenuity sufficient to display my anger.

"I did not mean you to come to harm."

I managed a scowl. "You have the gall to expect me to believe that?"

He frowned, "Perhaps not…considering how you have been treated thus far. "

"Who are you sir? Surely you can tell me that at least before you hand me over to your _professor_. If you are to be my warden for a time I should at least like to know who you are! You are in the pay of Moriarty are you not?"

"I am, though my immediate superior is Colonel Moran." He looked at Samuelson.

"You didn't explain?"

The lackey flushed slightly but stood his ground. "There was no time…"

His superior sighed and turned back to me. "I think that you do not fully comprehend your situation, Doctor Watson…"

He leaned against his desk, folding his arms.

"…I believe we have worked together before, though I have certainly never met you…Holmes never managed to find me either. You have the drop on him in this at least."

A slight smile creased his face, and though it held a certain amount of arrogance it was not cruel.

"My name is Fred Porlock."

The name alerted me instantly, but for those of my readers who are not familiar with it I shall elaborate.

During one of our earlier cases, the tragedy at Birlstone, dealing with the unfortunate Jack Douglas and the Valley of Fear, Holmes had received a coded message from an informant who from some unknown motive, occasionally leaked him information on Moriarty's activities.

Indeed it was this message that had sent us upon the case in the first place. Holmes recognized the writing though he had only seen it twice before and the moment he had realized who it came from he had declared it to be of vital importance.

It was signed Porlock, his informant's Nome de Guerre.

Holmes had never succeeded in tracing the man, though he had received other messages from him since, every last one of them leading to the prevention of a terrible crime.

And now, here before me stood a fellow claiming to be the elusive figure that Holmes and I had spent nights pondering over before the fire in our rooms at Baker Street.

The only conclusion my friend had been able to come to was that he must be high in Moriarty's circles to have information of the sort he passed onto us.

Apparently he was higher than even my friend had supposed.

It was too much…the confusion, mixed of doubt and hope and a premature relief, made my head grow light again and I hastily dropped it between my hands, breathing deeply against a sense of rising nausea.

There was some rummaging as a wastebasket was placed between my knees and a scrap of cloth pressed gently against the wounds in my arm, which continued to drip marginally.

Was it possible...was this indeed the man that I had jokingly theorized about with my friend?

Was it possible that all was not yet lost, and Holmes might still be recovered?

"Samuelson, fetch some supplies, I want to look at this arm."

I raised my head again, now was not the time for weakness.

My body disagreed, for no sooner had I completed the action, then my vision swam again and my head dropped almost of its own accord…I clutched at the wastebasket.

Porlock, if he was Porlock, placed a cautionary hand briefly on my shoulder. "Pray do not move Doctor…you are as green as they come."

Shrugged off the hand, but remained with my head down as I gasped.

"I would not be so if your men had not threatened me in the street!"

There was an uncomfortable moment of quiet, during which my own haggard breathing sounded in my ears, then the young man spoke again.

"They had little choice Doctor. The man you followed came directly from one of Moran's bolt-holes. If they had been discovered with you there then both they and I would have been uncovered and we would have been finished."

"I knew…about the shop…"

"And you went there anyway?" the voice was colored with disbelief…and perhaps a touch of admiration. "You have some nerve man. Do you also know of the Colonel?"

I nodded. "I have heard of him."

"They you must also know that he is not a man to be crossed, not directly…I might as well dangle a rat in front of a tiger. Samuelson had to get you out of there quickly or the game would have been up."

I managed to raise my head a little.

"What game? What are you on about? How the blazes do I know you are who you say you are?"

Porlock sighed, and stepped back, folding his arms somewhat petulantly.

"I sent Holmes a coded message with a cipher based on Whitakers almanac…I had intended to send him the cipher key until I discovered Moriarty was breathing down my neck, at which point I sent him a second letter asking him to break off. He ignored my warning and deciphered the message anyway with your help I believe, leading you both to Birlstone manor."

I hesitated, there were ways of discovering these facts, they were hardly proof.

"I have sent several other messages to Holmes since then, and in some form of recompense he returns the favor by giving me ten-pound notes which, quite frankly, are not anything near to what I get from working under the professor." His mouth twisted in an ironic grin.

"Then why would you take such a risk?" I said, my voice snapping again at his attitude. "If you have so much to gain from this man why do you stick out your neck for Holmes?"

Porlock smiled again, lightly. "Because I was disillusioned about Moriarty a while ago. Organized crime is one thing, cold-blooded calculation is another. His idea of humanity consists of figures and numbers…If something does not fit into the equation it is eliminated. I can't live with that kind of philosophy. It was not always so, with him…but he went further and further, and I never intended to sully my hands with any crime close to murder. I stick my neck out for Holmes because he is a good man, a brilliant man, and if anyone is capable of stopping Moriarty it is he."

I met his gaze directly. "You say is. Is he…have you heard…"

"He is alive, Doctor…and as far as I know…unharmed."

I swallowed again against the lump that had risen in my throat, and lowered my gaze.

The door opened to admit Samuelson, his arms full of various medical supplies which he set on the desk before turning to address his superior.

"I'm going to speak with Neilson, sir…will you be alright here?" he gave me a cautious, sideway's look.

Porlock nodded impatiently. "Doctor Watson is not our prisoner here, Mr. Samuelson. I don't want to hear of him being treated as such…especially not from you old friend."

The man was obviously devoted to his superior, for he agreed at once and turned to me with a somewhat apologetic look.

"I'm not one to shoot a man easily, Doctor…I apologize for the treatment."

I colored and could not form a proper response, for I was still chaffing from said treatment, but he took my silence in stride and with a parting word or two to Porlock he left the room as he had come.

"Samuelson is a stout man Doctor…if a little rough. He saved my life not five months ago in a smelting shop…though his efforts nearly cost me a good measure of skin." The young man transferred his gaze from the door to me, "He did not mean to hurt you."

"You'll forgive me," I said wearily "If I find that hard to believe right now…along with your own story."

Porlock nodded.

"You're entitled to that Doctor. I'm not certain I could have gotten half as far as you did…but you can rest here for a while at least…while we decide what to do next."

He made to take my jacket and after a moment of hesitation I let him…being in reality to sore to remove the article myself…and in truth…still somewhat dazed from the rapid morning's events.

"Do what next? What do you mean?"

Porlock knelt beside my chair and carefully eased the spotted sleeve up over the ruined bandaging, I sucked a measure of air between my teeth and clenched my jaw as he continued.

"I would have thought that was obvious. "

He took out a pair of scissors and cut away the bandaging.

"I'm not in the mood for guessing games." I muttered. "I've had enough of them recently."

The younger man nodded apologetically. "You're quite right, forgive me…I said just now, that I believe Moriarty has become too powerful. It is my intent to assist the official forces in bringing about his downfall."

"So that you can take control of his empire?"

Porlock shot me an amused glance.

"In truth Doctor, this world of the professor's grew stale too me not long after he recruited me out of his own university… I want to get out before I run out of loopholes and truly do something I will regret. I had intended to start again on the continent."

"You have broken the law…do you have no regrets about that?"

"We are not here to argue over my moral principles, Doctor."

He doused a clean cloth in antiseptic and applied It to the red swelling area of my arm.

I recoiled automatically, though managed to keep any sound from escaping by biting my tongue. Looking down I saw that several of the stitches had indeed been torn. I would have to redo them.

"What do you propose then…what if I think you are completely mad?"

"Then you are free at any time to leave, and I will give you any assistance I can…I only ask that you hear me out…I think you owe me that at least since my men risked their lives to save yours."

"They were very effective in fooling me as to their motives…what are you getting at?"

"I told you that I believe Mr. Holmes is capable of bringing Moriarty down" Porlock paused in his cleaning of the wounds and looked up at me, smiling again, his eyes glinting with some anticipation.

A shiver of the same anticipation echoed in me as I spoke.

"What of it?"

"Well Doctor, I think Mr. Holmes has been the guest of Moran long enough."

"You know where he is?" I asked eagerly, unable to help myself.

"That is exactly what Mr. Samuelson and Jebediah are endeavoring to discover."

He finished cleaning and tossed the now crimson cloth into a bowl, pulling up a towel to dry my arm.

"There is one thing I haven't asked you yet." I said.

He looked up at me, his brows raised in question.

"Why…if Holmes is so vital, did your men go to so much effort retrieving me?"

Again the smile…this really was a game to him, for I could not recall having seen a more childish and self-satisfied smile on any other face…save that of Holmes himself.

"Because Doctor, when we do know where Moran is keeping Mr. Holmes, I shall need your help…and besides…"

He drew out a length of thread, snapped it and threaded it through a curved needle before handing it to me.

"…You are a good man too."


	15. A Different Approach

_**Watson**_

I was in a somewhat better mind after I had repaired the stitches on my arm and covered the wound once again in fresh bandaging.

Porlock, it seemed, was making an effort to prove his assurances. While I attended to the unpleasant task he moved enthusiastically around his shelves, pulling down several portfolios and even a map, talking all the while.

"Moriarty actually knew about Holmes long before Holmes had deduced his existence, Doctor. It was a burglary case he foiled…I believe the house belonged to Mr. Charleston of Brook Street."

"I recall the case."

"Indeed, it cost Moriarty one of his best men, Pringle had a touch for picklocking and safe-cracking Holmes himself would envy."

"It nearly cost Holmes his right forefinger." I muttered reminiscently, the case had been a particularly nasty one, Holmes had been off his regular mark and only just solved it with last minute, frantic effort. It was something of a comfort to realize that the odds had been irregularly stacked against him.

"And it earned him a reputation, with Moriarty at least." Porlock went on, "Moran wanted to deal with him then but the professor was impressed."

"How did you throw your lot in with the professor?" I asked, unable to stopper my curiosity, finishing the last stitch and cutting off the extra string.

Porlock set his load of papers down on his already strewn desk. "He was my mathematics teacher, at university. He was impressed with my grasp of statistics and several other humanities studies…I had a knack for predicting people's actions…when I graduated he offered me a position…I soon found out exactly what it was he had recruited me to accomplish."

He said this with a casual off-handedness that I found annoying. How could any man refer to such actions with so much flippancy? Did he really have no regret for his actions?

Perhaps not…though if he was telling the truth about his intentions now then he was well on his way to making up for it. it was not so hard to believe either. He was young and had not lost his enthusiasm or idealistic views of the world, he was also passionate it appeared…if any man were to turn his back on an organization and a fortune it would have to be a young man who still possessed that sense of invincibility we all started out with.

"If his actions horrified you why did you not leave_ then_?" I asked as the lad unrolled a length of bandaging and began to securely and effectively bandage my arm, concealing the swollen red skin and black sutures of the stitching.

"No one leaves Moriarty's employ once they have joined…and I wouldn't do anyone any good dead."

"You would not have participated in any unlawful activities." I retorted, preservation of one's life was rarely an excuse if it meant the lives of others.

"I participated as indirectly as I could, and did everything I could to sabotage his figures. And when Mr. Holmes came into the picture I did everything to help him as well." Porlock declared, meeting my eyes squarely. "I knew he would have to be challenged eventually and I would be there to bring him down when that day came."

"You seem quite ready to let Holmes face dangers that you are afraid of."

"Different tools for different purposes, Doctor. I think with my head more than my heart, and I knew I would be more use in the position I'm in right now." He tied off the bandage and sat back. "I haven't been with Moriarty for three years and learned nothing. But don't think that I would leave Holmes to face his fate alone either…that's why I'm helping now."

"What exactly did you have in mind? And how am I to help?" I asked after a pause, for as much as I might disagree with the man's reasoning, he did appear to be nearly as eager to secure Holmes' rescue as I and at easily his best chance.

He smiled and climbed to his feet to retrieve the papers.

"If you'll come with me, Doctor, to a more comfortable room, I'll show you…have you eaten anything recently?"

The question surprised me, and I was even more surprised to realize upon reflection that I had not eaten…I had been so caught up in the case, and on edge that I had not even considered food. My last meal had been at Mycroft's and I had not had much of an appetite then. For once I was able to understand Holmes' abhorrence of food during a case. It was fairly bothersome.

"I haven't found the time." I said.

"I imagine not." Porlock opened the door and beckoned me through. "There should be food out in the sitting room…it will be cold but hot meals are a luxury we can ill afford right now. Would you join me?"

Now that I had been reminded of the need for nourishment I felt the ache of my stomach…indeed this may have been one of the reasons I had felt so ill earlier.

I got to my feet and was relieved to find them steady beneath me. "Thank you."

The interior of the house was not so unfriendly now that I was free to follow willingly behind my host instead of being dragged along with my hands secured behind me. My curiosity, the renewed hope of securing Holmes' safety, and the prospect of food added to this, so that by the time Porlock stopped in front of another door I found myself in far better spirits.

The room was more pleasant, a small sitting room with a comfortable set of chairs and a settee, with a fireplace of growing coals and a table that had been shoved unceremoniously into the center, now loaded with a number of cooling dishes.

Porlock moved several of these aside to set down his armload of manuscripts. "There is brandy on the side-board, over there Doctor, if you feel the need for a bracing drink."

I thanked him and fetched myself a glass before seating myself before the table, watching him as he spread out the map before him and pinned it down with several of the books.

My attention was soon caught by the aroma of food coming from the dishes and though I was reticent my stomach spoke for me, causing Porlock to smile slightly and offer me a plate.

When I had filled my plate with a variety of several of the dishes (cold as he had said, but of a quality that well made up for that attribute), he directed my attention to the map, as his hand hovered just above it with a ready pencil.

"I won't tell you where we are now, Doctor, in case something should go wrong but if you look here…"

He circled a small section of street. "Here is where Mr. Samuelson found you just now…now this man you were following…Montague…"

"How did you find out about him?"

He looked up at me, "I managed to discover his name among the gang that Moran took out to pick up Mr. Holmes. And after several hours of tailing him we managed to find out where."

He bent over the map, and after a moment jabbed with his pen and put a cross on a street not three away from Oxford.

I felt a slight pang at the sight of it, and set down my fork.

"Great Scott…I was still in Baker Street…he was not even a half a mile away."

Porlock, knitted his brows in sympathy, "I'm sorry, Doctor, I wish I could have done something."

"Could you have?"

He shook his head. "I was told nothing. Moriarty has been very careful to keep me away from the incidences concerning Holmes, ever since that brief moment of suspicion over the Birlstone case."

"Does he still suspect you?"

"I don't believe so, but he is always careful to stave off unnecessary risks. I knew that Holmes was closing in rather tightly but I had no idea of Moran's orders."

He touched my shoulder briefly, and this time I did not brush it off, but stared fixedly at the black lead x on the map, such a small thing that meant a great deal.

"He is still alive, Doctor…and unharmed. Moriarty was effusive about that. He admires your friend a great deal even now."

I smiled grimly. "Thank heaven for that at least."

Porlock nodded. "He's too valuable…Moriarty needs him to get hold of the folder he'd promised to Patterson. That is why he's been trying to capture you as well, for…for persuasion."

"Yes, I…" I could swear, even to this day that my heart stopped for a moment, as a terrible thought occurred to me and sent such a shock through me it was as though my insides turned to ice.

The folder.

"Alfie…"

The younger man frowned. "Beg pardon?"

"Moriarty…" I swallowed, set down my plate and looked up to meet his face. "Moriarty was right, Porlock…I know where the folder is."

His brows rose again.

"But that's good Doctor…it may make things a whole lot easier. If it was all that Holmes promised to Patterson then it holds the evidence needed to convict Moriarty at his trial…Can you retrieve it?"

I was grateful he did not ask me where it was…it said a lot for his motives. Unfortunately there was only one answer to give.

"No, I cannot."

"You needn't confide in me , Doctor, I understand the importance of caution, and that you may not fully trust me yet…but…"

"No I mean I can't." I gasped.

His gaze sharpened.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I took precautions, and when your men took me then the boy that was with me… that folder is either on its way or in the hands of Mycroft Holmes at this very moment. And if he thinks me lost as well then he will have no scruples about handing it over to Patterson."

Porlock went white.

It was the first time I'd seen the fellow lose his nerve…and somehow I suspected it would not be the last.

"No…no he can't do that, it will ruin everything, Moriarty is prepared for them."

I felt a portion of my own color drain away. "You mean he knows?"

"He has an informer in Scotland yard…one of Patterson's top men, Holmes' traps are already useless. The moment that folder arrives he'll send word."

I swallowed. "And, Holmes?"

"He'll be left to Moran."

I got to my feet again. "Then we must get him out of there now."

Porlock held up a hand in warning. "Steady now, Doctor. Matters have just grown twice as delicate, the last thing we need now is to be thoughtless. Is there anyway possible that we can intercept the folder?"

I shook my head, rubbing one brow with my good hand. "I don't know."

"And we cannot approach Mycroft Holmes without Moriarty knowing…think!" Porlock leaned over his map, elbows on the table, clutching at his hair.

I paced to the wall and back, "You have no clue as to his whereabouts?"

Porlock shook his head, and jabbed at the map again with a sigh. "We've narrowed it down to a general district but we would have to search house by house and the game would be up, it is useless Doctor. We need to get Holmes out and maintain my cover so we can bring down the four others besides myself that are just beneath Moran…once we've crippled the organization we can move in on the professor himself…"

I joined him leaning on the table, gazing at the detailed drawing of the expansive metropolis…never had I so resented its size as I did then.

"We must find him."

The lad threw down his pencil in frustration, "I do not see how we can, everything depends on that file, and if the police get their hands on it _before_ we retrieve Holmes then the whole of the operation falls apart."

"There is no way to learn of his whereabouts from Moran?"

"Not without giving away my loyalties, that is one of the things I was counting on you helping with, Doctor."

I took a tenuous breath, leaning heavily on the solid, polished wood. As important as I knew the operation to be, I was more concerned about Holmes himself…what would my friend suffer at the hands of this cold-blooded hunter from India?

I had encountered such men before, I had treated them…men who thrived in a lawless world, who came to feel that they were a law unto themselves. Adopting the idiom that the strong were always in the right they had few scruples and little guilt when reaching their own ends.

I had seen such men turn to beasts on the battlefield…in the camps when the supplies ran low…and most horribly on the retreat from Maiwand, when, after a bloody battle spent cutting down other men, they sought to secure their own safety, taking anything necessary, horses, guns…even water.

"What will Moran do with him?" I whispered, shuddering at the horror of those memories.

Porlock closed his eyes against the thought, but answered my question.

"I won't lie, Doctor, the colonel holds no sympathy for your friend. He's made that abundantly clear…he'll take pleasure in ridding himself of Holmes ."

He broke off, wiping his mouth with his hand as though to stave off a bitter taste.

I swallowed again, in an effort to head off the bile rising in my throat.

"We must find him." I said again, cursing myself for the loss of the folder. Porlock was right, I had been desperately hasty, and though some excuse might be made for my circumstances I could not forget that if I had been a little more cautious…

The fellow sighed, resting his head in his hand for a moment before raising it.

"I can think of only one thing, Doctor."

"Tell me." I said, for I could see the doubt and hesitation in his eyes even as he spoke.

"It would mean a danger to you."

"That weighs very little with me."

He nodded. "The only thing that the Colonel values more than one trophy, Doctor, is two…and he hates to lose a hunt. His success would be all the more complete…if you were present."

I felt a slight chill of fear as his meaning became clear…but it was overpowered by excitement, not only at the possibility of seeing Holmes again…but in actually having the chance of facing my enemies head on.

"The kid to lure the tiger eh?" I asked.

"Apropriate analogy, Doctor."

"How is he to find me?"

"You will do it…you are certain? It will be a tight spot."

I answered without hesitation, though my blood ran cold and hot in an odd combination of adrenaline and fear , "I have been in tight spots before, Porlock."

He took another breath, his shoulders slumped in resignation and regret. "Then it seems that is our best course, Doctor. If Moriarty discovers about the folder tonight he will lose no time in removing liabilities…and it is a well known fact that tiger's hunt after dark…"

His lips turned upward in a sardonic, humorless smile. "…I wouldn't worry about him finding you, Doctor. You've already ascertained how easy it is to be discovered."


	16. The Trap is Set

_**Holmes**_

I ascertained that it was early evening when Moran next entered my prison, for there was a splash of unnoticed gravy on his collar, obviously from the evening meal, and a general odor of an evening glass of brandy in the air about him.

These were the first things I noticed before catching the glint in his eyes…one of satisfaction. The look set off my imagination and at once a dozen possibilities for his mood came to mind which I banished at once. Staying so long in this dull, and far from stimulating room, without the benefit of tobacco, was doing nothing for my mental processes.

It was enhancing my emotions enormously however, and I had just as much trouble quelling those as he drew near his lips curling in a smile beneath the moustache.

"I thought I'd be the first to come down here and congratulate you Mr. Holmes…it seems that the folder has made it safely into the hands of your brother, just as you intended. The Professor has decided he doesn't need your help any more. So your free to leave the premises."

His eyes glinted with an almost hungry gleam. "He's instructed me to see your safely taken care of."

_**Watson**_

"Are you ready?"

I nodded nervously, twisting the revolver in my pocket. Porlock watched me somewhat worriedly from his position in the opposite seat of the hansom, glancing periodically out of the now open window.

I could not help casting surreptitious glances in his direction. Here was a man that Holmes and I had taken into confidence before, but I had never met him and now I was trusting him not only with my own life but the life of my greatest friend.

Surely he was to be trusted…and even if he was not, he was perfectly capable of handing me over to Moran right now…he had nothing to gain from such a scheme.

"It shouldn't be long now…he always comes this way, after his round of drinks, there's six more of them within earshot, and they should take you directly to Moran."

"You're certain you'll be able to follow?"

"I'll be in the carriage and Samuelson is on foot, he knows the streets far better then I should they choose to take you that way."

"Right."

He must have caught the uneasiness in my voice for his mouth tightened at the edges. "We'll be right on your heels, Doctor. Put on a show of resistance but be careful…I need not tell you that Moran's men have fewer scruples than he…and the Professor has not specified the condition you're too arrive in."

I shifted my bad arm in memory, "Yes I know."

He looked out the widow again, and this time straightened in his seat.

"Alright, Doctor…now."

I nodded to him, and slipped out of the hansom into the darkness, gripping my revolver for comfort more than for anything else, because if all went as planned I should have no reason to use it.

_**Holmes**_

I could see nothing due to the thick sack that had been shoved over my head as my hands were re-secured behind me. I only kept from stumbling on my way up the stairs due in part to the strong grip of my guard and my memory of the house from my brief sojourn through it earlier.

I was able to tell when we emerged outside not only because of the sounds and smells that my deprived senses picked up, but also the feel of loose earth beneath my shoes.

Moran's voice was always near, growling instructions to his men as they dragged me along.

I tried to catalogue the details of what I could sense around me, in hopes of finding out where I was but was able to come up with nothing unique or useful, other then the smell and sounds of horses stamping and snorting nearby.

A cab then, my surmise was proved correct as I was levered towards the raised platform of the cab floor and forced to stumble into it and then wait while nothing much happened at all.

I was very numb then, looking back now I can only think that my lack of feeling came from the great relief that the choice in and of itself had been taken from me. It was entirely out of my hands and so far as I knew Watson was safe.

Moriarty's downfall would come at a cost, but I had already counted upon that…I had reached the pinnacle of my career and was satisfied…with my brother's help the police would bring him to justice, and I would no longer be needed.

It was a comforting, if somewhat bleak, consolation. And my only regret was that I had not been able to say goodbye properly to my greatest friend.

_**Watson**_

The fellow was whistling tunelessly, walking very well for a man that was so inebriated. Even so it took him a moment to notice me.

I took the opportunity offered by that moment and took off at a run.

_That_ drew his attention fully and he took off after me, his suspicions confirmed, blowing a blast on a low-key whistle.

There were not six but eight that came in response to the call and very soon I was forced to reverse my path back the way I had come…and of course I came upon three on that side. The one who had followed me came trotting into view, his ruined teeth glinting in the dim light, and his eyes gleaming in triumph.

"Well, Doctor, what an occasion this is…fancy meeting you here in this part of London."

My fear was not all act as I backed slowly towards the wall just behind me, reaching for the revolver in my pocket.

I had just enough time to get off two shots before they laid hold of me, and then I managed to blacken a few eyes and bloody a nose or two.

At last as I sent a last blow into one fellow's stomach my free hand was seized and someone's grimy fingers took hold of the back of my head as a sickly-sweet cloth was clamped over my nose and mouth.

I have always despised chloroform and its effects and I found myself wishing there had been a better way as I unwittingly took a large whiff of the foul stuff.

I could not help but struggle as the hands of my captor's hands held me there, pressing my face into the cloth.

"Here now, Doctor." Someone laughed near my shoulder. "Don't fight it."

I had no choice, my lungs burned already from the fight and the need for oxygen was pressing, I breathed in reflexively, choked and inhaled a large whiff of it.

The darkness thickened before my eyes and at last solidified as my head swam wildly.

The last sensation I felt, was that of being tossed face-down over someone's thick shoulder, and the reek of old onions on his jacket.

_**Holmes**_

"Colonel!"

"Pliny! What are you doing here!? Stop stuttering man out with it!"

"Sir, we've found 'im! Johnson caught sight of him not on'y a mile from 'ere."

My breath sharpened as my heart began to pound with new apprehension in my chest. Good heaven's…they could not mean…

But it must be, judging from the excitement in Moran's voice as he answered.

"Where is he?"

"They're bringing him here now sir. 'Arry got 'old of a cart sir."

There was silence for half a second then the Colonel spoke again, his voice thoughtful.

"No…no don't bring him here…have Hurst take him to the garden house…you know which one. We'll meet you there."

"Right sir."

There was a sudden dip in the seat as Moran's thug settled next to me. The Colonel chuckled, just below me.

"I'll see you soon, Mr. Holmes, I have some preparations to make."

I heard his footsteps retreating, crunching on the gravel as he made his way back towards the house.

I took little notice of them, my head was resounding with objections that had sprung to mind the instant I had realized what they were talking about.

No, no no no no no, this was wrong…Watson was not to be involved, not when the folder was in safe hands, he had done nothing to merit this sort of attention from Moran!

My resignation of before was gone instantly, and I wracked my mind thinking of a way out as the horse attached to my hansom was whipped up and sent trotting along its way.

Nothing…I could think of nothing, could only think with sharp regret that Watson should never in his life gotten mixed up in such things as this, and that it was entirely my fault.

What would he think of me? The man who had failed not only to keep his word but had failed to keep him safe. Who was not quite intelligent or quick enough to match wits with Moriarty after I had used my powers on countless occasions to surprise and impress him…and had never missed an opportunity to brag about my own expertise and abilities.

I knew what he would think, I had known from the first of this whole botched affair what his feelings on the matter was. And they were entirely unrelated to his regard for me.

His opinion of me would remain the same no matter what occurred and it was really this which caused me the most shame, because I did not feel that I was in the least deserving of such regard.

He was the bravest, most selfless man I had ever known. And because of my folly and lack of precaution he was going to be killed, possibly this very night.

And I would be there to witness it.

That was why Moran wanted him at all…because of me.

The cab pulled suddenly to a stop, and before I had a chance to think further on the matter I was pulled abruptly from my seat and stumbled to my feet on a harder surface than before…some form of hard-packed earth.

I was marched forward, us a set of unsteady stone steps and through what must have been the main doors of a building judging by the heavy, echoing thud they made upon closing.

The air was closer here, and smelled distinctly of mildew and dust, and other things far less pleasant.

Nevertheless I gasped in this air gratefully as the confining hood was finally pulled off of my face, and I was greeted with the leering countenance of my latest watchman.

"Come on Mr. Holmes." He said, taking hold of my arm to lead me from the large entryway towards a very dilapidated hallway. "We don't want to keep the Colonel waiting."


	17. The Trap is Sprung

_**Holmes**_

We stopped at last, halfway down the corridor to see another set of figures emerge from the darkness…one was being very nearly dragged by the other and I felt a thrill of recognition as they came into the light of the lamp.

He was alive…thank heaven…he was alive.

I pulled reflexively against the hands that held me, numb to the bite of the metal on my wrists.

"Watson!"

Moran's thug lowered him to the ground, where he lay, eyes squinting against the bright glare of the lamp, raising his arm to shield his face, still somewhat dazed.

I felt my stomach tighten as I took in the bandaging that showed beyond the sleeve of his right wrist. How badly was he hurt? And what other injuries did he have?

At the sound of my voice his head turned quickly in my direction, and I saw some of the lines of fatigue and discomfort smooth away.

"Holmes?"

His eyes found my face in the odd light, and I was relieved to see them focus, he gave me a wry smile.

"Thank heaven."

My own heart lightened fractionally, simply from seeing him.

"Are you alright, Watson?"

"I'm alright." He affirmed, looking me over with his physician's gaze, checking for injuries. "They haven't hurt you?"

How could he continue to do that? Worry himself over my health no matter what the circumstances?! "I'm fine, Watson."

"Good." he smiled genuinely, and I could not prevent a small one of my own. Anyone listening to our conversation might have thought we were having a casual conversation in Baker Street.

"Alright, Doctor." the thug, apparently Watson's appointed keeper, growled, nudging my biographer with his filthy boot. "On yer feet."

Watson levered himself to one elbow, and then got to his knees. This was not fast enough for the fellow's liking however, for he gripped Watson's arm and pulled him upright so quickly that he staggered and clutched at his head.

My friend recovered himself and then with a coolness that even I would have been proud of turned a pointed glare on the fellow. "Perhaps you would like me to introduce you to the effects of chloroform and we can see how you fare."

"That's enough." This guttural growl came from across the room and announced the return of Moran, who stood in the opposite entrance of the dusty hall, his broad arms folded across his chest and his moustache bristling, reminding me ever of the whiskers of a jungle cat.

He fixed Watson with his penetrating eyes, as though sizing up potential prey, calculating all his attributes in one smooth glance.

Watson, for his part, stood as erect as he could, and met the man's gaze squarely with his own, and I felt a glimmer of pride that if he was afraid his face did not betray it. Perhaps it was because the similar experiences of both men had recalled old memories and instincts in both…but I had never seen Watson appear more soldierly. It was like catching a glimpse of the past, of the man he had been, even before he met me, the competent, compassionate physician who had treated the dying on the fields of Maiwand.

I have been privy to judges of the highest courts, the nobility and even kings in my lifetime, but looking at my friend as he stood then, in rumpled, ruined clothing, unshaven, his face bearing the shadows and lines of fatigue I found him to be far more dignified then they had ever been.

Moran appeared to be merely amused at this display of my friend's character, and his lips curled in a smile, his eyes sparkling with cruel amusement.

"So, Doctor. I see you have finally been good enough to join us, you are a hard man to find."

"As are you colonel." My friend said steadily but softly, he was not stupid, anyone of even moderate intelligence who met the colonel could tell on the instant what a dangerous man he was…how inexplicably ruthless he could be.

"And just in time too." Moran continued, "This will make it much more appropriate."

"What?"

"Mr. Holmes' demise, and your own of course. Comrades should face the end together, don't you agree? You have shared in so many adventures it would be a shame if you did not face this last shoulder to shoulder…"

"You're poetic license leaves a great deal to be desired, Moran." I interrupted impatiently, for I had no wish to be privy to the man's insults, much less his grasp of philosophy.

He transferred his gaze to me, but his smile did not fade, making me shudder all the more. He was utterly confident and satisfied in what was about to take place, and that alerted the gravest of alarms in my mind.

"That is one thing I cannot stang about you Holmes. You are cocksure, from the moment I learned of you I have heard nothing but reports of your over-confidence and arrogance…you prance about and delight in tricking poor dumb fools who are too stupid to see otherwise."

He stepped closer to me, leaned in so that I found myself fixed by his eyes as they, and his face, hardened.

"Where you in different circumstances you would not find it so easy."

Watson glared and shifted against his guard's hold. "What the blazes are you on about?"

"I mean Doctor Watson, that were it not for a society such as ours your arrogant prat of a friend would not find it so easy to worm his way to the upper ranks. He considers himself above the rest simply because he notices the smudges on a man's shirtcuff."

He glanced at Watson, almost in a comradely manner.

"You were a military man, Doctor. You know what I mean. There is no place for men like him…not there…not in the real world, men who think themselves beyond any law or code or master. Compliance is a necessity, Mr. Holmes, and only once you have learned it can you earn respect and power. It is not as you suppose sir, that you can supersede position and declare yourself the equal of better men."

The hunter's eyes turned back upon me once more and felt a tingle on my spine at their look.

"Men like you debauch the system…there is nothing I despise more than a man who does not know his place, and I find myself compelled to teach it to you."

Moran looked to the smallest of his lackeys and jerked his head, the fellow came forward and proceeded to unlock and remove the derbies from my wrists.

I frowned and instinctively sought Watson's gaze…his hazel eyes were grave with sudden concern and he met my look only nervously. Yes, he knew what the colonel meant. He had insight into the man's character and I mentally cursed myself for not seeing this earlier when I had first begun to form the case around Moriarty.

For the first time since the appearance of my Boswell I felt a genuine thrill of fear. If the colonel's words were so alarming to him, then what he had in store could not be good for either of us.

"That is the reason I stayed so long in India, Holmes." Moran said, "The jungles are one of the few places where a man is judged as he should be, your life is hinged on your actions, and how far you rise is dependent entirely upon your own effort. There is a very natural order there…even the locals recognize it. They have been in tune with it for years. Have you ever studied the religion of Hindu?"

I shook my head. "I make it a practice of mine, not to acquire miscellaneous information Colonel. As well you should know."

One of his graying, bushlike eyebrows quirked. "You are also a man of limited vision, Holmes. In Hindu, a man is judged entirely and honestly upon his actions, and this determines his position in life. He lives with the consequences of his character, for his lifetime, until the next time he dies and is born again into whatever shape he has earned next, whether it is a prince, a peasant, or a dog of the street." He smiled at the thought and again I felt the shudder.

"Everyone knows there place, and everyone lives by the same code. It is the same law in the cities and in the jungles around them. You would not last an hour in such a world, and I am going to show you exactly why." He turned away from me, and removed a long-barreled revolver from his pocket, highly polished and well used. Methodically he began to load the empty chambers as he turned to Watson.

"You have been to India, Doctor…" Moran went on, casually, but always with that underlying tone of controlled power, of menace. "…what would you say is the most dangerous thing you can encounter there?"

I looked to my friend in apprehension to see that his eyes were now wide with fear, his chest rising and falling more rapidly, perspiration glittered on his brow. What could he see coming that I could not?!

He hesitated, glanced briefly at my face, and then back to the Colonel again, his voice was soft and wary as he spoke.

"Other than a snake…I should say a tiger."

"Quite right." Moran closed the barrel with a snap and looked up once again. "Everything in India has respect for the tiger. It is no simple thing to bait one I can tell you from experience. The men who do hunt it are never foolish enough to meet it on its own terms. The proper method is to wait, in a raised platform, with the young kid of a goat tethered beneath it, a loaded rifle at hand and extra shots besides. Very few men have ever managed to find it and take one down without these precautions."

He lowered the gun and gave me his full attention once again.

"Since you feel yourself equal to such a task, Holmes, I thought you might like to know what it is really like. Sadly we would have trouble finding a tiger in the center of London…but I believe I have found a worthy substitute."

He nodded to the men who held me and Watson, and without hesitation they went to the door that Moran had entered through and vanished…a moment later a sound reached my ears that made the hair stand up on my neck and every muscle tense in anticipation, instinctively to run though the threat of the gun kept me in place.

The door burst open as the men re-emerged, both holding thick leashes, against which two large dogs, of different breed and type, strained wildly, snarling and snapping.

Watson took a reflexive step backward, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste, his face white and his eyes wide and horrified…and only then I recalled what Moriarty had told me about Watson's encounters with his men so far and the bandaging on his arm.

The Colonel smiled at his reaction, "Ah yes, Doctor, you have already had an encounter like this haven't you. Shame about the dog, though I must congratulate you on your rather impressive skills. Not many men could do the same. "

"What is the gun for if you have those brutes?" I asked apprehensively.

"Merely precaution, Mr. Holmes, in case the good Doctor should get lucky again."

My heart jogged in sudden terror. "You cannot mean to include…"

"He has thrown in his lot with you Mr. Holmes. That is enough. Besides, two against one is hardly sporting."

"He is injured, you call that sport?!"

"Holmes." Watson gasped, sending me a desperate look. "Don't…"

"You are both possessed of intelligence greater than that of any animal…and you shall both have the opportunity to prove yourselves equal to the odds."

He smiled at both of us again, and it was at that instant that I saw the enjoyment in his eyes, and recognized him to be in his own element that I knew him to be entirely mad.

"You can hardly put this down as an accident." I gasped. "The police..."

Moran laughed, the first time I had heard him do so…and I never wish to hear such a cold and menacing sound for the remainder of my life.

"This building is old, and opens up to an overgrown yard, fenced of course, a perfect site for this sort of settlement."

Spurred by the actions of their master the dogs lunged anew against their restraints, fairly choking themselves on the thick bands of leather, their eyes fixed on us in mindless, savage intent, their snarls ripping through the otherwise still air of the ancient building.

Moran smiled and cocked his revolver. "Run."


	18. Law of the Jungle

_**Watson**_

I tripped again in the darkness of the debris-littered hall, only to have the sinewy hand of Holmes seize hold of my arm and pull me to my feet again. It was vital that we keep going, there was no telling how long Moran would allow us before releasing his dogs. Neither of us took the time to say anything, but kept on, running as fast as we could towards the rear of the building.

The yard, Holmes had declared, was our only chance, the dogs would track us by our scent no matter where we went, and if we went up we would inevitably be trapped. If we could make the boundaries of the yard there was a chance we could find a gap and slip through. It was slim but any chance was better than none.

We had not gone more than two or three corridors before there was a telltale baying behind us, that signaled the animals had our scents and were beginning the hunt, one of them was apparently descended from some form of hound.

Holmes looked behind us, his steps faltering for a moment, then his eyes hardened like rivets of steel and he took my arm again, this time to urge me along.

"Hurry." It did nothing to help my conscience to know that Holmes was concerned for me already, I had caught his look as he noticed the bandage on my arm.

We rounded another corner, passing several empty rooms and nearly reaching the other end of the hall before I heard the scrape of claws on the wood floor.

Holmes' hand tightened compulsively then released my arm.

"Run, Watson!"

I did as I was bid, somehow going faster than I had been before, lengthening my stride, pulling on reserves I had forgotten I had.

Holmes matched my gait easily, but did not pull away or go any faster, keeping pace, stubborn fool…there was a chance that he could escape if i…

I expelled the thought, even if I brought up the idea Holmes would never agree, no more than I would consent to leave him.

I could hear them clearly now, and not only the scrape of their claws but their huffing breaths as well. I could imagine it hot on my neck along with the innumerable teeth, I used the image to hurry my pace even further.

Being as they had four feet for every two of ours they had little trouble gaining on us, and by the time we were half way through the hall they were very nearly at our heels. One snapped and lengthened his stride in anticipation.

Watching this, I did not notice Holmes' action until he had snatched at my shoulder and pulled me into one of the siderooms, shoving me in ahead of him and closing the door. Unfortunately for us the door was half off its hinges.

I jumped as the beasts suddenly struck at it, with a resounding crash.

A crack appeared In the ancient, flimsy wood and it puckered inward near the base as the leaner of the two dogs began to push his way through, clawing at the slick ground trying to pull itself further along. There was another crack and he burst through, heading straight for us.

Holmes shoved himself into me, thrusting me backward towards a rickety table as the beast leapt forward. I flinched and was about to pull Holmes clear but my friend raised his foot and delivered the thing a spectacular kick to the jaw.

It yelped and dove to the side, thudding against the wall.

The other dog, more thickly built than the first, was trying to force itself through the hole its companion had made, but could only snarl and scratch ineffectively at its prison.

The lean dog, gathered itself again, circled back towards us.

Without a pause for breath Holmes had pulled me towards the door and wrenched it open, shoving me aside as the larger dog shot forward, skidding across the floor like a bullet from a gun.

Then we were through it again and he was pulling it closed, urging me onward even as I staggered and gasped for breath.

He led the way left into a series of larger rooms, that led into one another and from what was left of their furnishings appeared to be a dining room a sitting room and so on, at last we reached another hall, with one end shrouded in gloom.

When we neared the end and the darkness became clear to our eyes Holmes raised his head and I saw his neck stiffen. I looked up and saw what had so excited him. a door, just ahead at the end of the hall…and not just any door, but the door that led to the yard outside.

With another burst of speed we reached it, Holmes wrenched it open and shoved me through, before following himself and pulling it closed.

The cool empty air around us did a little to revive me and I was able to keep up the pace as my friend pulled me along again. We crossed the stretch of empty yard that stood between the building and the small overgrown orchard beyond, a space that had long ago been littered with various forms of junk that the residents of London had seen fit to deposit there.

We were just making the trees when there was a sudden snapping of branches behind us and I shot a look back to make out the leaner of the dogs gaining on us, circling at us from the left, snapping in anticipation as it neared.

Quite without warning it fixed on my friend and lunged, its powerful hindlegs carrying it the last distance between itself and its quarry, and closed its jaw around my friend's leg.

I watched in terror as Holmes jerked to a stop and with a strangled cry fell straight down, just managing to brace himself against the ground before he hit it, hard.

Then the beast was on him, surging from his leg towards his head, worrying at his neck even as he clutched instinctively at its collar, writhing in an attempt to get away from it.

Even on my way it seemed I could not reach them soon enough, I had no time to consider a weapon, could only seize hold of the animal itself and haul it away before it got a proper hold. It came, but only with a struggle, lunging and straining towards my friend.

I had no breath to gasp Holmes' name, but watched in terror as he rolled away, his arm wrapped protectively about his neck.

Then, as I knew it would, the dog was suddenly on me, turning to fix me with its black eyes, devoid of color in its wildness. My nerves failed me, my arms seemed to grow limp as they quavered. Its whole face seemed to be comprised of black stinking maw and numberless, glistening teeth. It surged forward again and I struck in desperation at its eyes, causing it to yelp and draw back momentarily before coming forward again.

Then, quite without warning, its head jerked forward and it let out an agonized yelp. I looked up, and saw Holmes with a stick in his hand.

The thing staggered, disoriented, and I saw a flash as Holmes brought the club down a second time on the back of its neck, I clenched my eyes shut and turned my head, trying to block the terrible sounds from my ears…until I felt the weight of the thing collapse on top of me…unmoving.

I lay, gasping for breath with already burning lungs, my arms quivering like a poorly made custard.

There was a crunching of gravel as my friend collapsed beside me, his own harsh breathing joining my own, a thud as he dropped the stick…

Almost instinctively I kept still, as though awaiting another attack, unable to calm my mind into a rational line of thought, only breathing as much of the cool air as I could.

I leapt, lifting my head and gasping as a hand closed over my shoulder, shaking quite as badly as my own was. Holmes lay just beside me, his mouth gaping open as he pulled in breath after breath of oxygen, his eyes fixed on my face.

"You…" he broke off, gasping for breath, then started again. "You pulled it off me."

I nodded.

His lips twitched in a slight smile and he closed his eyes, squeezing my shoulder briefly before he let his hand slide limp to the ground.

I let my head fall back again, and for several moments concentrated on breathing.

But the adrenaline rushing through my veins would not let me hold still interminably and there was still the matter of the other dog. After a minute or so I raised myself, pushing the still-warm body off of my legs, getting to my knees beside my friend, who still had not moved.

My first concern was for his neck and face where there were streaks of blood shining against the white pallor of his skin. He made no comment or objection but lay still and allowed me to examine him with less than steady hands.

There were a number of shallow scrapes on his neck and jaw from where the beast's teeth had grazed against him, along with a number of small bruises where the smaller teeth had managed to pinch the skin. His larynx was undamaged and I could find no puncture marks.

I let out a great breath of relief and felt my heart still a little, if not my hands, as I moved down to his leg.

The damage had not been quite as slight here. It had either been too swift or had misjudged its leap for it had done more damage to his leg than his ankle, but blood seeped readily through the ragged tears in his trousers. Even if the tendons and muscles of his foot had been spared, the skin was well and truly broken higher up and there some considerable tissue damage.

"I'll examine it fully later…put in some stitches." I gasped, ripping off a strip from my own ruined shirt and wrapping it tightly around the worst of the damage before binding it in place. "Can you walk on it?"

He'd opened his eyes again during the course of the examination and nodded slightly in answer to my question. "I did…to get the…the stick."

His eyes fastened briefly on the club that lay beside his hand, one end dark with blood. He shuddered.

I ripped off a section of my sleeve and put it to his neck, lifting his own hand to place against it. "Hold this here…until the bleeding stops…the damage is superficial."

He did as I bid, smiling again wryly. "I think…that I owe Sir Henry an apology…my dear Watson."

"So long as you are here to give it to him." I said, returning the smile rather unsteadily. "Come on."

I bent and pulled his arm around my shoulder, lifting him slowly to a sitting position and then to his feet, where both of us swayed unsteadily for half a second before steadying.

Holmes made not a sound through this, only clenched his jaw and his eyes shut, his hand clamped down firmly over the scrap of cloth on his neck.

It was when he took a step that he grunted and pulled up short, wincing.

"Holmes?" I asked, fearful that the dog had after all further damaged the leg so as to lame him.

He said nothing for a moment, but took a bracing breath and gave me a shaky grin. "It is easier, when you are numbed by adrenaline, Watson."

Still I watched him nervously, considering carefully my friend's weight and my own remaining strength. "Holmes…if it is necessary I can-"

"No." he interrupted me firmly, his voice laced with amusement. "You cannot. There is no choice on my part old man…we must go on."

I nodded, tightened my hold under his shoulders and began to move forward.

He gasped, screwing up his face as his foot came down again, and then fell into a limping walk beside me, his teeth tightly locked.

I took as much of his weight as I could, keeping a firm hold on the long thin arm, draped across my shoulders.

After a few yards I stopped beneath one of the larger trees, a spruce so that he could catch his breath. He collapsed at once against the bark, making himself take deep, even breaths.

I kept my eye on him, but watched also the building for any sign of the second dog emerging.

We had not been stationary for two minutes before my friend opened his eyes again and fixed them on the way we had come, his brows furrowing in concern.

"Watson, do you…" he broke off, looking sharply to his left and an instant later I heard it, even as the figure stepped through the branches of the tree.

For such a large man, Moran could stalk as quietly as the wild cat of India that he so admired, he was also out of breath and held in his hand the revolver he had loaded earlier and pointed it not at Holmes but at me.

"Well…Doctor." He said, with a grin that was more menacing than amused. "It seems your luck continues to hold. And I have underestimated you Holmes. That was very neatly done."

"But not enough it appears." Holmes said.

"Quite." Moran cocked his revolver, and lifted it.

And the moment he moved so did Holmes, faster than I would have thought considering his wounds. He took hold of Moran's wrist and pulled it sharply downward as he stumbled and fell, making the shot go afoul into the tree, sending a drift of pine needles raining down onto our heads.

I flinched at the shot but then surged forward to deliver a sharp blow to the man's protuberant jaw.

He staggered, bringing the revolver up in one hand and seizing hold of my jacket in the other. I tore the weapon from his grasp and with a satisfying crack brought it down sharply across his skull, dropping him like a stone.

I watched his crumpled form in satisfaction for a moment or two and then pocketed the gun, kneeling beside Holmes even as he sat up slowly.

"Are you alright?"

He smiled grimly, white and somewhat shaky with reaction. "Quite. We had best be on our way Watson, in case his friends are out searching the rest of the grounds."

I nodded and pulled his arm again round my shoulder.

"Oh and Watson…"

I paused, puzzled by his tone, "Yes Holmes?"

His smile warmed considerably.

"It is good to see you old fellow."


	19. Retreat

_**Holmes**_

Moran's hound had made a mess of my leg. I had not seen the damage myself but Watson's face had been rather grim as he had examined it.

Watson continued to support me as we made our way through the yard at a fairly rapid pace, and I clenched my jaw tightly in an attempt to keep back the moans that threatened to rise in my throat. It would not do for Watson to hear them…or worse, for Moran's men to find us because of any noise I might cause. Heaven knew I had botched this affair quite well up to this point, and I would never forgive myself if I made matters worse because I failed to control myself, especially now that we had a fighting chance.

I smiled inwardly at the thought and at the feel of the strong arm that held me upright. I did not think I could ever be so relieved, or reassured to have Watson with me again. All the time we had been separated it was as though I were missing a limb, and only now, that I had him back again, did I realize how keenly I had felt his absence.

This, along with the cool night air on my face for the first time in some days I felt positively cheerful…well…as cheerful as one could be after narrowly escaping a gruesome death at the hands of one of the worst men in London…and with the injuries in my leg. I was reminded of their existence once again as I stumbled over a piece of rubble in the dark and a sharp pain ran up my leg.

The bandage was insufficient, though I knew Watson could not have done any better, not at the moment. The threat of Moran, and more importantly Moriarty were far from gone…we had to get away from here as soon as possible.

But with each step I was losing more and more blood through the thin cloth, and I leaned more and more on Watson, who was just as weary, if not more so, than I.

I stumbled again, this time from an attack of dizziness, and I could not repress a hiss of indrawn breath as the sensation of white-hot flames licked around my leg, around and beneath the skin…the torment of tattered muscle and nerve ends rubbing against one another.

Watson adjusted his pace, and his arm round my middle and drew me up straighter with a few murmured words, but he did not stop. He felt it as keenly as I, the sensation of eyes on one's back…of something about to pounce from the shadows, that kept one moving, heart beating wildly...

I tried to calm it slightly, for I was becoming short of breath and oxygen, my gasps sounded loudly in the still night air and my pulse began to pound in my ears. I really did not know how much longer I…

A fresh wave of pain washed over me and this time I yelped. I was on my knees, held upright only by Watson's arm, and as the gray mist dissipated from my eyes I realized (to my deep shame) that I had begun to swoon. My head still swam...far too empty and light.

Watson steadied me, one hand on my arm as he spoke. "Steady Holmes."

He knelt beside me quickly, bending his head to look again at the wound, the exhausted lines around his eyes and mouth grew hard and severe with concern.

"You're losing a lot of blood, Holmes…sit still…I'll rebandage it."

I gripped his arm as he began to ease me down, stopping him. "No…Watson…there's no time…"

His jaw was set stubbornly as though he had already foreseen my objections. "You can't keep going in this condition."

"We can't do anything about it here, Watson."

"I've only just gotten you back…I'm not going to let you bleed to death before my eyes…not in a forsaken place like this."

I had no strength to prevent it as this time he pulled off his jacket and wrapped it firmly over the blood-soaked cloth, tying it as tightly as he could. As an afterthought he took both my cravat and his and tied them just above the wounds in a tourniquet.

"Idiot…" he muttered to himself, genuine worry in his eyes. "…should have thought of that sooner."

I felt a slight flash of anger at this deprecation, and I gripped his arm, causing his head to jerk up in surprise. "Don't say that, Watson…you are anything but…You've done far better than I."

"So you think." He said, tying off the knot and helping me rise to my feet once again. "I'm just very lucky…like Moran said..."

"Moran is a sorry excuse for a man with a twisted mind." I gasped, as I put weight on my foot again, feeling slightly better for the further treatment. "And he could not be more wrong about you."

I glanced at my biographer, worriedly. He had slipped into a grim determined attitude that I suppose he must have developed during his time as a military physician. It was my fault he was here at all…that he was involved in the first place…I should have been more careful.

But then…if he was somewhere else than he would not be here. And I would have been dead a while ago.

He had saved my life…not only in finding the folder, but tonight as well.

I had truly underestimated my friend, if not the depth of loyalty that drove him, then the resourcefulness and instincts he had used to evade Moriarty so far. To think that it had taken a series of events such as had taken place over the last few days to make me see that.

He had hidden depths indeed…and suddenly I could understand better, how he had survived his experiences in Afghanistan.

He had seen things and developed instincts that I could not even begin to comprehend. Survival had become ingrained in his very nature by war…survival and fearlessness. And even though he hid it most of the time I had been a fool not to see it before…I had only ever sensed it was there.

Perhaps it was these hidden qualities that had caused me to ask him to accompany me on that first Jefferson Hope case…I had never been quite sure.

My thoughts were wandering, my neatly ordered mind was all in a jumble and I was having difficulty concentrating. It took far too much effort simply to lift one foot and place it after the other. Most of my support came from the man beside me, and he was already staggering with exhaustion himself, gasping for breath, his brow shining with a sheen of sweat.

I tried to straighten to make it easier on him and felt my leg give way at once, moaning at the more subdued pain that lanced up the tattered limb.

Watson tightened his grip again and gasped some reassurances, continuing on doggedly, tendons standing out in his neck…his jaw set.

His face and the yard beyond it swam before me and I closed my eyes hurriedly, lowering my head.

I stayed that way, concentrating instead on moving my feet properly, letting Watson guide us.

The number of steps began to slur together along with the minutes and I found myself almost slipping into a daze at the pattern of our movement…not much longer…keep going…it could not be much further now.

Further where?

I felt a new wave of concern as I realized that I had not the slightest idea of where we were headed, or how we were going to evade Moran and his men once we were out of the yard.

Watson seemed to know where he was going…had he perhaps set up a rendezvous with the police or Mycroft?

Not the police…even Patterson would have swept down on Moran as soon as he had discovered his location…

Come to think of it how had they discovered his location…

Had Watson gotten himself deliberately captured?!

I opened my eyes and turned to reprimand my friend on this point when I spotted something that engaged my attention entirely.

It was a gate.

"Watson."

My friend looked up, and saw it almost as quickly, judging from his sudden intake of breath. A weary smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Bravo Holmes…come on."

He pulled me toward it with fresh vigour, and I found the strength to pick up my own pace…either that or the tourniquet on my leg had completely numbed it…I could not really tell.

I felt a wave of relief as we reached the gate and Watson made quick work of the rusted lock with the butt of his revolver.

He closed it again behind us and we stumbled a few paces away before collapsing against the wall, both of us trembling with exhaustion and gasping for breath.

Watson took a few, deep lungfulls of air, then gave me a relived grin.

I returned it…and felt it drop like sap from my face as several shadows separated themselves from the darkness of the alleyway before us.

Three of them.

_**Watson**_

I saw Holmes tense, and turned at once to look in the direction of his gaze.

I felt my own heart give a leap as three men emerged from the shadows, silently as ghosts…and then I let my shoulders slump again in relief, for I recognized the foremost of them.

Holmes of course, did not, and as was his nature he took immediate action. Stepping away from me so my firearm would be free, his hands clenching even as his pale face went a shade whiter and he swayed.

I caught him just in time as he came close to collapsing the second time that night.

His weight was almost too much for me, so spent was I by that time. I struggled to hold onto him and turned again to the approaching figures.

"Help me."

The foremost came forward hurriedly, his young face rather drawn with stress and what I took to be concern, he went to Holmes' other side, pulling his right arm around his shoulder even as the detective's knees buckled entirely.

"Nielson go get the cab, Samuelson go make certain no one is following us." Porlock barked to his men, his voice more edged than when I had heard it before.

He looked at me over the top of Holmes' head. "Doctor…I'm sorry…"

He was interrupted by Holmes, who regained some measure of consciousness and began to struggle calling out.

"Watson."

I gripped his arm reassuringly.

"Don't, Holmes. It's alright."

He raised his head tiredly to peer at Porlock, obviously skeptical…but he swayed again and it was obvious that he did not have the strength to object, as he struggled to get his wobbly legs back under control.

"How badly is he hurt?" Porlock asked, taking in the bloody mess of cloth that swathed Holmes' lower leg.

"Not too…his condition is due to shock and bloodloss mostly."

I filled him in quickly on what had occurred in the house and his face grew pale at the mention of the dogs.

"By heaven…that's why…"

"Why what?"

"Why we could not find you, Doctor. Jedediah took three men…new recruits, into the side of the house but all he found were two of Moran's men, Samuelson tried to follow the Colonel but lost him in that mausoleum of a building...I'm sorry."

I shook my head, unable to think of a real response to this, my mind was still on the terrible house behind us, and the man just outside it. "You stopped his men from following us."

"Well I'm glad to be of _some_ use." Porlock muttered, voice full of self-disgust.

However much of this conversation Holmes' heard or even understood was impossible to say, for at that moment he lost consciousness completely, falling limp in our arms, his head lolling.

I swore, peering anxiously at his leg and then at the darkness where Nielson had disappeared too.

Another moment passed and then Samuelson came puffing back into sight, his bushy brows drawn together.

"There's two more men headed this way sir. They're followin' the trail of blood and the footprints. We have a few minutes at most."

Porlock nodded and adjusted his grip to take Holmes' feet.

"Samuelson, take his head. Be gentle."

"No." I took Hold of Holmes' shoulders myself, though my arms quivered. "I have him."

Porlock looked me up and down worriedly. "Doctor…"

"I have him." I said. Ally or no, I do not think I would have relinquished Holmes up to his own brother right then. I could not recall a time when I felt the need to be more protective.

Holmes' informant sighed but nodded and waited for my signal before lifting Holmes gently…carrying him toward the hanson which was just now rolling out of the darkness, Nielson at the reigns.

The wheels of the vehicle, and the hooves of the horse had been muffled with cloth, and made hardly a sound as it came to a stop beside us.

He got Holmes inside and sat holding him securely as the other two climbed onto the seat opposite.

Porlock tapped on the roof and Nielson turned called softly to the horse, starting the hansom with a slight lurch.

Holmes groaned and stirred slightly in my arms, but he did not open his eyes or show any further sign of wakening.

When we were some streets away Samuelson saw fit to light a dark lantern and put it on a hook on the ceiling of the vehicle, casting a dim glow about the interior.

I took advantage of it, checking my friend's pulse and examining him as well as I could under the circumstances.

His pulse was weaker than I would have liked, and his face was washed of color, as white as one of the pages of my journals. His brows were furrowed and a sheen of sweat stood out from his skin.

Stark against the white, the blood shone darkly against his neck and face and at the sight of it Porlock swore vehemently.

I looked up to catch a look of dismay of a level I would not have expected.

"Blazes…Doctor." The man gasped, "I am sorry."

It was tempting to take out my anger at him, after all he was practically inviting me too, and the built up stress and turmoil that had plagued me for the last few days would need some sort of outlet eventually, but now was not the time for such a breakdown…nor could I fairly say that the man deserved it.

"It was a stupid idea, we should have both seen that." I said fairly. "But we had little choice in the matter…and he's alive, that's more than I could have hoped for earlier."

Porlock sighed unhappily and scrubbed at his face, but nodded.

"We have supplies, where we're going Doctor. Everything you could need…you can both rest there…while we devise a way to get in touch with Mycroft Holmes and the police."

I nodded, elevating Holmes' head slightly on my arm so as to make him more comfortable.

He was alive…by some miracle of providence we had done it…both of us together…and he was alive.

"I have some brandy, sir." Samuelson offered.

I shook my head.

"I'll have trouble enough making him rest when he comes round, I rather he stayed unconscious for now."

And really…having found him…that was enough for now.


	20. Terms and Conditions

_**Bit of reunion fluff for you guys, and a long due argument. **_

_**Holmes**_

My mind tugged at me, urging me to disperse the comforting darkness that blocked out any sensation. Usually a spark of consciousness was all that I needed to overrule my body no matter what condition it was in or how much sleep I had gotten…but this time I was reluctant. I could hardly remember a time when I was so deucedly tired, as though I had been sapped like a tree, leaving me limp and unresponsive as a piece of cut lumber.

It was comfortable in the darkness, settled, and I was loathe to break the muted, fuzzy feel of the world around me, as though I had been buried in cotton. My head was as heavy as a load of bricks and whatever it had settled upon was soft and yielding so that my face sank down into it…so very comfortable.

Well…physically I was comfortable, my mind continued to come to life despite my desire for unconsciousness. There was something prickly…something important that niggled at the back of my mind and resurfaced no matter how many times I tried to banish it.

Something was wrong…and if it would not go away then I would have to deal with it so that I could go back to sleep.

With this resolution I slipped at once into the mental processes that were so familiar to me…cataloging my surroundings as my senses came slowly to life.

I smelt fresh linen, and the antiseptic smell that I associated with everything medical…I was not in a hospital was I?

No…the echoing emptiness of large, white rooms was absent…wherever I was was darker and a different sort of quiet from a hospital room. Rather than the severe, hushed silence the air was filled with comforting sounds…the crackling of a fire…the sound of London traffic in the street outside.

I smelled coffee as well…and tobacco…I craved it as though I had been missing it for a while now.

I had been…I recalled suddenly my imprisonment in the basement of the townhouse, the long, dull hours of uninformed torment that I had suffered through. Alarm lit up my mind, like a light springing to life in the darkness, as I recalled further the events that had followed, of the empty mansion and yard, and the dogs that Moran had set on us and ….us…Watson.

Watson was there!

This was the spur I needed, and I felt my heart begin to beat faster in excitement. Watson had been there…where was he now?

I struggled to open a pair of eyelids that felt as though they weighed several stone each and was met with the sort of room I had first suspected. A darkened room, with a fire crackling to my right.

I was lying recumbent on a settee…not the cheap cot that I had been chained too while Moran's captive, my head was propped up on a pillow and I felt the reassuring weight of blankets tucked neatly around me. It was, in fact, very comfortable, and I would have been quite contented to stay where I were I not so concerned and eager to see that all was well with my friend.

Surely he would not be far away…he never was.

I knew my Watson. He _was_ nearby, a soft snore to my left drew my attention and I spotted him at once, drowsing in a plush chair beside the couch, hunched down so that he was almost horizontal, his head resting limply on its cushioned arm.

I smiled in a sudden wealth of affection and tried to sit up so as to get a better look at him.

Almost as soon as I raised my head and got my elbows under me my vision blurred and my arms quivered with weakness, I sank back onto the pillow with a moan.

I had forgotten the damage done by the dogs last night, probably because of the morphine Watson had no doubt administered. Had it even been last night?

A glance to the only window in the room told me nothing, as it was covered by a thick drape. It might have been an blazing Armageddon outside and I would not have known thanks to the heavy velvet.

This concern was mediated almost at once, as Watson stirred from his doze, alerted by my moan and the sounds of movement.

He was a fairly light sleeper (yet another habit acquired from his afghan experiences) but not usually that light, his nerves must be very shaken to be in such a state. And no wonder, after several days of evading Moriarty and his men.

He certainly deserved whatever sleep he could get and I felt a rush of shame that I had awakened him, noticing for the first time how exhausted and disheveled he looked. I couldn't recall him ever allowing himself to sink to such poor condition.

His shadowed eyes flickered wearily open, and he peered groggily at the room for a moment or two before pushing himself upright with a slight gasp, eyes wide fearful, flying at once to my face.

Seeing me awake he relaxed at once, losing the tension as quickly as it had come, his lips curled in a tired smile and his eyes, though dull with exhaustion were warm.

"Holmes." He said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "How do you feel?"

I smiled again, quite a record for so short a time, but his obvious joy at being reunited was infectious.

"I have always thought that to be a rather redundant question for a physician to ask, Watson. I would rather you just tell me what condition I am in."

He laughed, more out of his contented attitude than actual amusement and leaned forward further to take my wrist in his hand.

I noticed my wrists were red and chaffed from my imprisonment, though the skin was unbroken.

"You're pulse is strong at least." Watson said, releasing said wrist to lay a hand on my forehead. "And there is no sign of fever from infection. And if you have retained your very cynical nature then I think we can assume that you are doing very well."

"Ah, so you did retain something from medical school."

Watson snorted, ignoring the jibe, and repeated his question stubbornly.

"How do you feel?"

"Better." I said, watching as he appraised me tiredly.

I frowned. "Have you slept at all? You look awful."

He pulled out his watch and glanced at it, rubbing a hand self-consciously over his unshaven face as he did so. "It's only been five hours, Holmes. Hardly enough time…and you're not exactly a picture yourself."

"I'll remedy that if you allow me to get on my feet." I said, hopefully.

Watson sighed again, resignedly. Rising, he pulled back the covers over my leg to examine the neat bandaging he had placed on it.

"Some of the lacerations were shallower than I thought at first. I've cleaned and stitched them. Nearly eight in all…three of them are very deep, and there was extensive bruising as well as bloodloss."

He gave me a pointed look. "I would be happier if you stayed off your feet for a few days at least."

I raised my brows quizzically. "You don't intend to enforce your medical opinion?"

"No. There is too much at stake, but if you do not take it easy at least for today then I _will_ take precautions." He held up a stern finger.

"And you will eat something before you move from that spot."

"Eat what, Watson…the bedclothes?"

"Very funny, I'll go ask for something, and see about getting ourselves cleaned up, you stay there."

He prodded the edge of the couch…as though I were a disobedient overcurious puppy and not the only consulting detective in existence. I smiled inwardly…it was good to have him back.

He was about to leave the room, when I thought of another question and raised voice to it.

"Watson…"

He stopped short, his voice apprehensive with concern. "Yes Holmes?"

"Have you seen Mycroft?"

He stared at me in blank surprise, his hand upon the door. "Mycroft?"

"Yes, Watson, Mycroft. My brother, far politer than I and somewhat wider in girth, do you remember?

He snorted and tried to look disapproving though his eyes still sparked with happiness. "Comparing the two of you taxes even my powers of description, Holmes. Of course I remember. What makes you ask?"

"Since we're not ensconced in the uncomfortable rooms at the Yard I assume it was my Brother who came to our assistance last night. I received little information when I was Moran's guest, Watson…I shall need you to fill in the details."

"Ah." He said, his face clearing in comprehension. "I shall be happy too."

"Thank-"

I broke off in surprise as he abruptly turned and left the room, his voice drifting back as he vanished.

"_After _breakfast."

_**Watson**_

"Holmes, that is not enough to satisfy an emaciated dog." I said sternly, as he took a single sausage onto his plate to accompany the egg. "From the looks of things you haven't been eating well the last few days."

Holmes' face flushed and he shot me a glare. "That's hardly my fault."

I felt color creep up my own face at my lack of tact, and covered it quickly by forking another egg and a second sausage onto his plate. "All the more reason then."

He grumbled but dug his fork into the food, and I turned somewhat eagerly to my own breakfast.

I had taken in perhaps half of it when I felt his gaze on me, and raised my head to see that he had paused in his own meal to watch me, his eyes soft with an uncommon warmth.

"It really is good to have you back, my dear Watson." he said, with a voice that was for once, free of his usual arrogance and cynicism.

One of the little shivers of warmth that had been coursing through me since the previous night warmed me now, and I could not suppress a smile. I had been thinking similar thoughts all through the night as I dealt with his leg and waited as he slept. Surely there were few things worth more, than a friendship where one received such pleasure just from being in one another's company, especially after I had wondered whether I would ever see him again.

"You as well Holmes." I said, genuinely.

"Moran _was_ good enough to inform me of _your _movements old fellow…what he knew of them at least. I see that not all his taunts were unfounded." His gray eyes, dimming slightly in concern, examined me with their usual thoroughness, lingering once again on the bandage over my arm and the marks and singes on my clothes caused by the fire in Baker Street.

I sighed, set aside my plate, and rolled up my shirtsleeve. I unwound the bandage and proffered the injuries for his examination.

He glanced it over, his mouth thinning before meeting my gaze again. "A dog."

I nodded, and made to rewind the bandaging over the red-irritated skin once again. "Another of Moran's. I encountered it just outside of Mycroft's flat."

"So you did go to Mycroft." Holmes sat up a little straighter, his own, half-eaten breakfast lying forgotten by his side.

I adjusted my shirt-sleeve and picked up my plate again. "The food's getting cold Holmes."

"I'm done." He brushed the plate away absently with one hand. "Watson…did you miss the train?"

I picked up my fork and speared another egg, feeling the full weight of his gaze upon me.

"Tell me that you did not miss it on purpose?"

"Actually I jumped from it."

"Watson!"

I set down the fork again and met his outraged scowl squarely.

"Would you really expect me to leave you here to face Moriarty on your own?"

"I certainly wouldn't expect you to do anything so foolish." He said. "Watson, you could have been killed."

"So could you!"

I was surprised at the adamancy in my own voice, and so was Holmes, for my outburst silenced him, though he kept his eyes fixed squarely on my face.

"You ask me to do a great many things Holmes, but the one thing you cannot ask me to do is to leave your side in a crisis like that, I will not and I cannot. Don't ask me."

He sighed unhappily. "Moriarty is another matter entirely…"

"Not too me he isn't." I cut him off again. "And I've just spent the last few days testing his mettle for myself. If my survival isn't proof enough that I can hold my own in a conflict like this then I despair of convincing you."

He set his head back against the pillows scowling petulantly. "That's not the point, Watson."

"And if last night wasn't enough…"

His hand clenched on my arm suddenly, silencing me in turn, he fixed me with one of his hard, steely-eyed glares.

"It is not your ability that I am questioning Watson…you _have_ more than proved that, the mere fact that you not only managed to evade Moriarty but also managed to secure my release is amazing. You really are remarkable."

I felt some of my anger drain away at his words, and at the softening of his eyes again.

"It is your participation I object to," he was not angry now but grim, "It was foolish of me to involve you in the first place, you should not have to put yourself at risk for me."

"I'm sorry to tell you this Holmes, but that is what friends do for one another. If you wanted to head this off you should never have mentioned the flat to Stamford. "

He snorted, and tried again to speak.

"I'm not leaving Holmes…even if I could…you are wasting your breath."

"Watson…"

"Nor will I keep undercover." I said, "Not if you mean to stick your neck out."

"I would be much more at ease if you would stay…"

"And how would that leave my peace of mind?" I demanded. "Knowing that you're risking yourself while I remain hidden. No."

He scowled at his hand in reflection, tapped his fingers against his leg for a moment then raised his gaze to me again.

"You are the stubbornest man I have ever met."

"Thank you." I ate my egg and set down my fork resolutely. It had gotten cold.

"You will let me share in this danger Holmes…you cannot prevent me."

The glare he gave me told me that he was more than willing to try…I hoped it would not come to that.

At last he looked away with a resigned sigh. "If I let you, will you promise to listen to me…and follow my instruction?"

I nodded "Yes, but only because I have been a soldier and know how important it is to have order on a battlefield, not because you demand it."

"If you get hurt, Watson, I shall never forgive you."

"Nor I you."

"Pax then." He rubbed his eyelids wearily for a moment. "Now will you please bring me up to date with what had been going on the last few days?"

He dropped his hand and gave me a pointed look.

I smiled, it really was good to have him back as well.

I was about to make good my promise and had just set aside my plate to do so when there was a knock on the small sitting room's door.

It opened cautiously and our host peered in.

"Ah." He said, striding slowly into the room, "Good morning gentlemen. Mr. Holmes...It is good to see you awake at last sir."

He held out his hand as he addressed my friend, almost with a sort of reverence in his face.

Holmes' face was a perfect picture of puzzlement as he shook the hand, his brows knotted together in an obvious question, which he then directed at me.

"Holmes." I said, suppressing a grin. "This is the man whose hospitality we have been enjoying. May I introduce you to Fred Porlock."

His expression was one that I shall not soon forget.


	21. Mathematics

**I'm very sorry for the delay on this story, I would tell you guys a sob story about college, professors, writers block and being forced to write random bits of various Watson angst for KCS but I wont, aren't you relieved?**

**Although now that I mention it I have to say that the continuation of this story is all thanks to KCS (along with my brilliant reviewers, you know who you are). It turns out that I'm too much of a Watson to properly understand Moriarty and were it not for KCS selflessly volunteering to roleplay him for me in a very realistic and rather unnerving conversation that still haunts me to this day, I would never have known how to continue. **

**So she deserves more Kudos for the next five chapters than I do, even though she won't admit it. **

_**Watson**_

Holmes listened with increasing agitation to Porlock's account of the previous day's events, and fixed me with a piercing glare when he heard the account of my waiting outside the shop, being found by Porlock's men and of my purposeful capture by Moran. I knew that look very well and knew there would be words later.

But right now my friend was suffering from the suppressed energy he had built up over three days and he was eager to get his bearings so he could hopefully salvage the ruined net of plans he had placed around Moriarty and his organization.

"Have you contacted my brother, or Patterson?" he demanded once Porlock had finished with his succinct account.

"We've taken steps." Porlock said, and I noted some little reserve in his voice. He was not accustomed to taking orders, especially not from someone who was obviously more competent then himself. "We've found out your boy reached your brother all right, but we already assumed that when we found out Moran was going to do away with you."

"Right, We have no time to lose…Watson-"

He turned to me and paused as he took in the look on my face.

Something…something incredibly important had just occurred to me. I had been too caught up in the events of last night and my anxiety over Holmes ' leg to think on it, and then I had simply been to exhausted to think at all.

"What is it, Watson?" my friend asked, seeing the urgency on my face, dropping his brisk authoritative tone.

"It is Monday." I said quietly.

Monday, the day Holmes and Patterson had settled upon for their raid on Moriarty, he had told me the first night that it was scheduled for ten in the morning, when his organization would be well into their duties.

Only, Moriarty was well aware of the whole scheme, and had no doubt made ready for it, the mere thought of what Patterson and his men faced haunted me. How could I have forgotten?

Holmes' face grew instantly stony. "What time is it?"

I fumbled out my pocket watch, suddenly clumsy in my anxiety. "It's after eight."

My friend swore and instantly sat up on the sofa, swinging first his good leg to the floor, then shifted his other gingerly testing it even as he sucked in air sharply between his teeth.

"Carefully Holmes," I said, half bent over him already as he moved it.

He brushed me off impatiently and at last succeeded in putting his other foot on the floor. His leg, wrapped in red-stained linen, standing out starkly against the ripped, ruined trousers he still wore.

"We must get to, Mycroft, Patterson must send men to head them off."

"Head who off?" I asked, caught between the detectives' contagious urgency and my medical instincts to prevent my friend slid to the edge of the couch and braced himself with his hands to stand.

"Do you really think that Moriarty will leave his lieutenants to be snatched up by the authorities, Watson? Most of them will already be on their way to the continent."

He pushed himself upward and stood all at once, staggering slightly and grimacing as his injured leg took his weight.

I held myself back from going to his side to assist him. I was somewhat relieved to see that it could take the strain but still wished there was time for him to rest it further…always providing that he would, of course.

He braced himself on the edge of the couch for a moment and then turned to our host who was watching us.

"Porlock, have you received any word from Moriarty…or Moran? Any instructions for today?"

Porlock shook his head. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

Holmes swore again and turning abruptly made his way to the thick curtains covering the windows, limping heavily with a tight grimace of discomfort upon his face.

He drew the velvet aside the merest crack and peered out into the morning light, I heard him take another sharp breath and then he beckoned.

Porlock and I came to stand beside him and he moved so that we could see, and pointed.

"Is that your man Porlock?" evidently he already knew the answer for his voice was heavy with resignation.

I looked and after a few moments saw a glint in one of the windows opposite our building.

"No." Porlock said, his own confidence flagging dramtically at this evidence.

Holmes let the curtain fall shut and I turned to him, feeling my heart begin to race again. "He knows we're here? Holmes how is that possible?!"

We had only just been reunited, It had taken this long to secure Holmes' release and now we were on the verge of capture again! Only moments ago it had seemed that we were secure and secreted inside this house, I had actually begun to relax my guard slightly.

My nerves were suddenly afire again, and I felt the heavy mantle of fear, which had so briefly been alleviated in Holmes' presence, fall on my shoulders again.

"It's possible, Watson." Holmes said grimly, "It's quite possible. You've been suspect to him for months Porlock, ever since that Birlstone murder…"

"But…" Porlock looked genuinely worried now "I made certain, he's not shown any irregular behavior."

"Do you think he would let you see his suspicions?" Holmes snapped, turning a sharp scowl on the younger man. "He's not a fool, Porlock, the moment he became suspicious of you you were a danger to him, a deficit…he would never trust you again. Are all you're men accounted for?"

"I… yes, Samuelson is downstairs with Jeb…and…"

"Never mind," said Holmes, "The gunman's presence outside is enough evidence. One of your men is not who you think him to be Porlock, he's been reporting all your movements to Moriarty, the house is no doubt surrounded…do you have any method of escape, something unknown to everyone but yourself?"

"No."

"Then we are trapped here quite effectively." Holmes said bitterly. "What the devil are they waiting for?"

"I'll go and see that the others are still downstairs." Porlock said, turning to the door.

"Don't," Holmes said, freezing the man with an upheld hand. "I don't doubt that he is…ah."

My friend pulled aside the curtain again, and peered down into the street…and then I heard it as well…the sound of the wheels and hooves of a cab just outside.

"He cannot be here." I whispered, joining my friend, I prayed for it not to be, he could not.

But he was. The vehicle, drawn by a smart little horse drew to a halt just outside the door and the groom waited silently and patiently as a familiar stooped figure stepped out.

Dear reader, there have been many times in my life when I have observed passing events to have an almost surreal, haunting quality, not the least among these were my experiences in Afghanistan. Watching Moriarty step out of the cab and look up at the house with his twisted expression and dark eyes I felt that I was in another nightmare and must in a moment awake to find it untrue.

…any moment…

But if it was a nightmare it did not end, the moment stretched, and Holmes' bony hand gripping my shoulder in silent comfort convinced me of its reality.

It was a serious blow, to feel so safe one instant and reassured of my friend's safety as well…and then to have it swept away in an instant.

"This is my fault." Holmes muttered bitterly, "I did not have my wits about me last night, or this morning…though it might have been too late by that time. He's probably had us boxed in here since shortly after he got wind of it, and I've no doubt one of the gunmen outside is Moran himself. He's been keeping us here while he made arrangements."

"Why?" I whispered, Holmes looked at me. "Why keep us here?" I clarified.

"So that he can have the surety of dealing with us himself, Watson, Moran has bungled this affair beautifully so far. First allowing you to evade him a number of times and then letting us both slip out of his hands. He won't let it happen again."

I shivered at this new evidence of the man's coldness and Holmes' expression darkened.

"I doubt he will do the deed himself, but he will certainly oversee it to make certain it is done properly."

Porlock had gone very white, he stumbled numbly backward, bumping into the couch and then turned and hurried to the stairs.

"Samuelson!?" we heard him calling.

Holmes started after him, "Porlock, don't be an idiot!"

I hurried to get Moran's revolver from the table where I had set it last night…it still had five chambers of unused cartridges.

There were sounds of scuffling just down the hall and the stairs, on the ground floor…Holmes had been right, as always.

My friend stopped and looked back to me. "Watson." I nodded, closed the chamber and came to stand beside him as he went to the door.

He pushed it closed and at his direction I shoved at a heavy table to serve as an impromptu barricade.

There were more raised voices and heavy footfalls upon the stairs.

"They came in under our very noses, Watson." the detective muttered angrily, obviously berating himself.

"How were you to know?" I asked, cocking the revolver.

"I should have." He said, casting me a suddenly mournful glance. "I'm sorry, Watson, I've done very badly this whole time."

I shook my head, now was not the time for self-reproach. "I've already told you my opinion on the matter, Holmes."

My friend smiled slightly, though there was not much sentiment in the smile.

"Good man." He said softly, his hands braced against the table as I cocked the revolver. "At the very least we-"

I never heard the last part of my friend's consolation, for at that moment we were forced to put our shoulders to our small barricade as a great force smashed into it, and raised voices washed over us.

_**Holmes**_

The door smashed inward so suddenly and with such violence that we were ill prepared for it, the table slid into my middle and knocked me off of my already steady feet.

Watson kept to his, pressing against the flimsy wood with his face and jaw set, Moran's long-barreled revolver clutched tightly in his right hand.

A good soldier, he spared me only a quick glance before turning his attention back to the door.

"Holmes?" he grated between his clenched teeth.

My injury was radiating pain all up through my leg but I bit back my moans and forced myself to stand, gripping the table to help myself.

"I'm fine." I gasped and leaned against the table again.

"Should I shoot?" Watson asked, his feet braced against the floor and his shoulder to the door.

Moriarty was no doubt still taking precautions against his escaping undetected to the continent, the sound of gunshots would immediately bring the police.

If Watson fired first and gave him away, I had no doubt he would order his own men to fire and speed up the process. A horrible image of bullets piercing the door came to my mind, Watson would be directly in the line of fire.

"No." I gasped quickly. "Don't…it…"

But even as I scrambled for some miraculous idea that would free us from this precarious position, I felt my feet sliding on the floor and the door slowly inching open. We didn't even have a key, and the force behind the door was far greater than our own defense.

I had no time to think of any interference of any kind, I could only push with Watson at that inexorably opening door.

And for one of the first times of my life I felt a sudden resignation.

I had failed, fully, utterly, completely, even with all the unexpected effort that Watson had made to secure my release. It seemed I that I had finally found an opponent in Moriarty that was not only a fair match for my steel but surpassed me.

It seemed he had been right, about inevitable destruction. That was exactly what we faced now, pushing vainly against the door.

And yet, Watson had not given up, he was putting everything he had into preventing the door from opening, his weapon still in his hand, his eyes hard with purpose even as I saw the glimmer of fear in his depths.

How much of life was truly like this, a futile struggle against the inevitability of defeat, and how did men such as my friend stand against it even when it was so hopeless?

Could I really do any less?

I braced myself against the table and shoved back, Watson turned his eyes upon me again and then my footing slipped again.

That slip was fatal to my friend's hold on the door, it crashed into him with renewed force and the edge of it caught the side of his head, knocking him aside with a grunt.

I was thrown backward further as the table rammed into me, I fell onto my back, clutching impulsively at my leg.

By the time I looked up again it was too see six other men in the room. One of them with his arms fastened behind his back; Porlock.

Four more were strong proficient men, obviously employed for this very function, and the last…

Moriarty spotted me on the floor, and he had the same condescending look upon his face as when he had called upon me in Baker Street.

He smiled, thin and grim, and his resemblance to a reptile was strengthened.

"Very disappointing, Mr. Holmes." he said, as his thugs tossed the limp and obviously unconscious Porlock aside and two of them took hold of Watson and pulled his arms behind his back, fastening them as well.

He shot me a look from the floor as they ground his face into the carpet, fastening his feet even as he struggled.

The two others came around behind me but I kept my eyes fixed on Moriarty, hoping that my expression fully conveyed my anger and whatever wounded pride I still possessed.

He saw through me of course, he knew perfectly well that he had won, he did not even need to give voice to the fact, everything that could be said did not need to be said as it was evident to both of us.

Nevertheless he spoke, perhaps for Watson's benefit as much as his own satisfaction.

"To be truthful when I heard that you were not so badly damaged I held out some hope that you might offer a last, interesting resistance. This one was very uninteresting."

"A shame I shall not have the chance to rectify it." I said as my own hands were pulled behind me. "Have the decency to tell your men to stop abusing Watson, he is injured."

Moriarty sent a sharp look at his men, and they backed away from Watson at once, leaving him prone on the floor, he sent me another look that was more shocked than relieved, and I turned my attention back to the professor, unable to meet his expression.

Why…why had I involved him in this?!

"It has, as I have said, been an intellectual treat to match wits with you, Holmes." Moriarty said. "And if it is any consolation, you have caused me a great deal of trouble, I have had to take great amount of precautions to preserve the finer parts of my organization. It will take years to fully repair the damage you have done, though I am somewhat gratified that you lived up to my expectations in that score. And it has given me a chance to pick get rid of a few of the more faulty portions of my organization." He looked pointedly at the crumpled form of Porlock.

I had only just met the man, but I still felt a degree of regret at his fate. The poor fellow really had been outmatched by Moriarty.

Not that I had done much better.

"Sadly, we both know what must be done now." Moriarty said.

I met his cold, dark eyes and saw no amount of remorse, hatred or really any human feeling in them. It was a look that belonged to a logician, to a mathematician who dealt in numbers and fractions.

We were merely an imbalance to his formula and had to be subtracted from the situation.

_**Halfway through this chapter I realized that I had inadvertently shaped it to resemble a true incident involving four brave and noble men in a similar, desperate situation as the one Holmes and Watson found themselves in. **_

_**I had no intention that this fictional story should resemble such an event in any way, and I have no doubt that it holds more significance for me than for my readers, nevertheless I dedicate this chapter to the memory of those four men who held a door against a mob intent on their destruction. Two of them were murdered. **_

_**Willard Richards, John Taylor, Hyrum Smith and Joseph Smith. **_


	22. Cat and Mouse

_**Seriously…you don't have to read what happens in this chapter if you don't want too, you can just skip it and say you did, its' completely bloodless, but be warned I felt ill after writing it.**_

_**Holmes**_

The villain turned, and fixed his gaze on Watson, who had been watching our exchange white-faced from the floor.

My friend shuddered, though he returned the professor's glare steadily.

"I regret also, that I had no more opportunity to test your mettle, sir…you have not the same level of insight of your friend, but you have…commendable qualities."

Watson swallowed and blinked, shell-shocked and no doubt torn between the obvious compliment, and odd circumstances in which it came. The professor turned from him without waiting for a reply and turned to me instead.

He smiled at me sadly. "It really is a great waste, Holmes. I doubt I shall ever find an opponent of your intellectual capacity again."

"A great pity." I retorted sarcastically.

His eyes lingered for a moment, dark, pitiless and alive with that well of untapped power and rage…a will that more than rivaled my own. And then, with those parting words, he took up his stick again and left the room.

His men lost no time, using the barrel of his revolver one of them broke the glass mantles around the two jets nearest the door. Without igniting them he turned up the gas, filling the room with a subtle hissing noise that sent shivers down my spine. The other waited with his own gun trained on the room in readiness.

Seeing their plan at last, Watson's face drained of the little color it had left and he began to tug ferociously on the ropes on his hands, ignoring the damage it caused to his wrists.

"Watson." I said quietly, my voice snapping in my own anxiousness.

He looked to me, his eyes wide with fear.

"Lie still."

He stopped his struggling at once, though he was clearly doubtful, he was already short of breath from the effort.

Porlock was still unconscious, unaware of the unpleasant fate which awaited all three of us. Watson spared him a glance of concern, and then split his attention between casting worried glances at me and Moriarty's men, who were going about the business unaffectedly.

The odor of the gas reached me a moment later, and the man nearest the jets began to cough, clapping a hand over his mouth.

He jerked his head at his companion and they left the room, closing and securing the door, and jamming the crack at the bottom with some discarded article of clothing, relatively sealing the room.

The odor was followed rapidly by the gas itself and Watson, being closer than I, gasped and began to cough.

"Holmes." He choked, "Holmes, we can't…"

I was already moving, taking the deepest breath I was capable of I began to roll towards the door.

Watson watched in confusion, beginning to choke and gag in earnest, he made to move away from the door.

"No Watson!" I spared a bit of breath to gasp. They wanted us away from the door, to retreat to the back of the room so that we would have no chance of reaching the air in the hall, that was why they had set off the gas nearest the exit.

My friend froze but for his jerking coughs, his brow still furrowed as he watched my efforts.

It was tiring, partially because of the ropes and partially because of my leg which panged sharply with my effort. By the time I had reached the door my breath was spent and my lungs were burning for air, I lost no time in putting my mouth to the crack and snatching another breath around the hastily stuffed coat.

Then I rolled over again, reaching with numb fingers for a pearly white object on the floor.

As I strained my head round to see it I caught a glance of Watson's face and was relieved to see that it had cleared in sudden realization and his eyes lit that spark of hope that is distinctive to him. His skin was turning a dark red by this time and his efforts to breathe in the room without asphyxiating.

In the end he tried to follow my example and hold his breath, but he had too much to begin with and his face soon darkened, as his eyes followed me desperately.

I strained, twisting uncomfortably and searching the dusty wood and thick carpet, it was getting harder to see, the gas burnt and stung one's eyes and my own were watering abominably.

At last I felt the cool surface and sharp edge of the broken glass mantle beneath my finger tips. Ignoring the cut it gave to my finger I twisted again to put my face to the door to take another breath of the polluted air, hoping that there was some oxygen still.

There was very little, my head swam and I had to suppress a violent cough as it filled my burning lungs, I turned to look at Watson again and saw that he was straining to hold the air he himself had, his face was growing darker, not so much red now as purple, the sight spurred me to grip the glass firmly between my bleeding fingers and begin to saw at the ropes.

It was painfully slow work! The glass was thin and delicate and deucedly difficult to maneuver, though it almost made up for the fact as its edge was remarkably sharp due its width.

At last I felt some give and in my relief pressed harder.

The shard broke in my hand and my heart gave a lurch.

I glanced again at Watson, saw that he was peering at me through the haze, his eyes red and watering. He saw the dismay in my own face and his face fell, he closed his eyes, his shoulders beginning to quiver with the strain of holding his breath.

A fierce anger flared up in my chest, not out of frustration or because of my failure to reckon with Moriarty, but on my friend's behalf. He was too good a man to meet so an ignominious and painful death as this…I would not have it!

I strained my arms violently, found another shard of glass fumbling with my slick, bloody fingers I began to saw again at the ropes.

There was a gasp beside me, as Watson suddenly released the air from his lungs, automatically he drew in the gas and I heard him begin to choke and wheeze violently.

My hands were shaking now and my mind unhelpfully called up everything I knew about inhalation, all the gruesome details and past cases that I had studied and witnessed, the horrific events in history that I had memorized.

One minute, unconsciousness occurred a little over one minute of coal gas filling a room of about this size, and death followed within minutes of that.

My lungs were burning again, I needed to turn and to breathe at the crack, but Watson's gasps were getting more desperate, he wasn't even capable of coughing out the foul air in his lungs anymore.

Torn, I began to saw more violently, cutting into my fingers with the glass, grasping it however I could while I sawed at the ropes.

My lungs were screaming for air, I could feel my own face darkening in color, Watson's breaths were getting shallower, faster, more strained, the shard slipped and I caught it only in time, I began to strain with my wrists as well, I needed air!

All at once, the ropes gave way and my arms parted as my clenching hand drove the shard of glass into my palm.

I was almost too dazed to realize it and driven by desperation I twisted and shoved my face against the door, wheezing and gasping as much gas as I did air from the hall.

As soon as my head cleared marginally I turned to Watson.

He wasn't moving, and there was no sounds of inhalation. With shaking limbs I staggered toward him and collapsed next to him on the carpet, bracing myself with a hand on the settee.

I managed to get an arm under his shoulders and lift.

Fire shot up my leg and I gritted my teeth, unable to cry out. His dead weight seemed to weigh a ton and I could barely drag him towards the door.

I was out of breath again by the time we reached it. Letting my friend drop to the floor I reached for the cup of tapers (thin paper stick used for lighting candles and such) that stood on the sideboard.

My hands were shaking almost too badly to insert it into the lock, but I managed it at last, praying desperately that I was correct I poked it through.

There was a muffled tap as the key hit the coat on the other side of the door and I dropped the taper in relief.

I gripped the coat, flattened it where I could and began to ease it under the door.

There! the small iron key shone against the dark wool, I seized it up, swaying with lightheadedness, shoved it into the lock and at last heard it click as it turned.

The door swung open and struck the wall as I collapsed through it, cool, clean air flooded my face and I gasped drawing it into my burning lungs to feel it clear my head dramatically.

I turned back at once, gripped Watson's collar and dragged him clear of the room.

Only when we were down the hall did I stop at last and bend over my friend, untying his hands and feet.

For one, terrifying moment, I thought that I might be too late; his lips, his very skin, was tinged blue, and his eyes were fractionally open, showing the irritated whiteness beneath.

"Watson." I choked, raising his head on my shaking arm, feeling my heart turn to ice within me.

A moment later reason reasserted itself and I laid him flat again on the hard wood. Laying my hand just below his ribs I pressed down.

The gas inside his lungs escaped with a hiss.

I watched, raising his head again in an effort to clear his airway, and with a sudden choking gasp, his chest expanded marginally, trying to pull in the clear air of the hall.

My eyes burned anew, thought not with gas and I gasped myself, raising him up higher.

"That's It, Watson…that's it."

He stiffened, pulled in more and began to cough violently again as his lungs tried to rid themselves of the gas that lingered.

Nearly limp with relief and weakness I glanced back toward the room.

I had not forgotten Porlock, the poor fellow would have begun to breathe in the gas at once, and I had little doubt that it was too late for him even if I had had time to go back.

I did not, it had to have been nearly ten minutes and Moriarty's men would be coming to see that we had expired as he ordered. We had virtually no time to make our escape, and hobbled as I was by the wound on my leg I would be lucky to be able to support Watson.

His breathing was slowly easing as the gas diminished from his lungs. I pulled his arm round my shoulder and delivered a sharp slap to the face that made me cringe. I had never struck him before, even if it was to get him to respond.

He jerked in my grip and his head lolled forward, at least his skin had lost the blue tinge.

"Come on, Watson old man," I ordered quietly. "Wake up."

I shook him and his head raised itself groggily, his eyes were half open again, his breathing stentorus.

"Watson."

Bloodshot eyes found my face, glazed and impartial to the word in general, his lips parted to speak but all that emerged was a low moan.

"On your feet, Watson." I rose to my own, lifting him with me. "Stand up."

He did, though his legs quivered and his knees threatened to buckle. My own wounded leg began to shake under the weight.

I had little doubt that Moriarty's men were waiting on the street in caution of the case, which was already spreading into the hall…we could not go out one of the usual exits or even a window; which left us with only one possibility.

"Come with me, Watson." I pulled him forward, heading for the end of the hall to a dingy set of steps. He stumbled, his steps slow and clumsy, his head lolled again.

"Come on." I pulled him upright and tightened my hold.

We made it to the steps just as I heard the sound of the front entrance opening beneath us, the sound of its' closing again echoed ominously through the house and alerted even Watson, who looked back in alarm, blinking rapidly.

I ignored it, pulling him up the steps on borrowed adrenaline and finally opened the attic door.

"Ho'mes." My friend's hand tightened suddenly on my shoulder. "Ho'mes…Porlock."

I gritted my teeth…he was incapable of moving himself and yet could not abandon his precious role as physician and caretaker even now.

"There's no time, Watson."

"But…Holmes…"

I tightened my grip, pulled him all the way into the attic and closed the door quietly behind us.

A dim half light filled the room and it was predictably bordered by all number of dusty boxes and other miscellaneous objects, helping Watson to the farthest right side I lowered him to sit against the wall so that I could begin to move and shove boxes aside.

He was still recovering, blinking around at the gloom, and he watched me curiously, coughing still.

"What…what are you doing?"

"It's a connecting house, Watson." Holmes said, "There should be a connecting door…ah…"

None too soon, for my arms were beginning to quiver with exhaustion and I was still gasping and coughing for breath myself, a small, compact door came into view.

I smiled at Watson's raised eyebrows and tugged on his arm.

"Come on old fellow…just through here."

The thing swung outward without too much trouble, and Watson and I were able to slip through just as shouting and scuffling sounds came from down the stairs.

Watson cast an anxious look behind us and I had to drag him the rest of the way in as he stumbled.

I leaned out, dragged an old frame and tattered blanket in front of the door and then pushed it firmly shut again.

Watson had collapsed forward onto the wood floor, his eyes closed as he breathed heavily, still coughing occasionally.

I sat for a moment to catch my breath and to assess our next move.

Disturbing the occupants of this house would probably not be advisable…not for a while at least, for that would raise the alarm and I had no doubt we would almost at once be in the hands of Moriarty's thugs again.

On the other hand, it was likely if we could stay hidden that they would eventually give up and disperse…Moriarty was well on his way to the boat train by now, and his influence in London was now scattered.

And looking at my friend, lying in utter exhaustion on the floor of the attic, it was apparent that he was in no condition to go after Moriarty, even f we could manage it without being caught a second time.

"Holmes."

Watson pushed himself up slowly, his arms quivering.

"Porlock...did…"

I shook my head.

"There was no time, Watson." I whispered.

It hit him fairly hard, I could see, the usual spark that lit his eyes diminished further and he let his head droop wearily. Not that my friend had been close to the man, I was certain, but most loss of life was apt to affect him so, such was his nature.

"We'll stay here for a little while Watson…when they've gone we'll-"

I whipped round as the small door suddenly flew inward and thudded against one of the boxes piled beside it.

I hardly had time to register the fellow's leering face before he had pushed me forward and I landed hard on the creaking wood.

He was grinding my face into the wood, and I began to choke as his fingers found my throat and thick dust filled my nostrils.

"You slippery-"

His own words were cut short suddenly with a grunt and his grip faltered as he fell sideways.

I rolled over to see Watson, holding an old ironcast candlestick in one hand, before he tossed it away and fell on the man himself, gripping him by the throat instead.

Watson's face was set in an unreasoning mask of fury and grief, his teeth set. He was still somewhat confused by the gas, and with his rage I imagined all he realized was that he had gotten his hands on one of them at last.

Luckily for the man Watson was still weak and he had no trouble in shoving my friend aside.

I kicked him sharply In the side (with my good leg) and he grunted again, turning to me, clutching the spot with one hand.

Watson threw himself onto the fellow's legs, sending him flat to the floor again. it earned him a kick to the face and he fell back again with a grunt of his own.

The thug was up again in an instant, far fresher than either of us, but he was still slow and dazed and as Watson kicked over a stack of boxes onto him I managed a hook to his jaw.

He fell one last time and didn't move again.

I sat, trying to catch my breath, and Watson had collapsed back against the boxes again, his eyes were filled with an wild energy and there was a bruise coming out on his jaw. His face was grey with exhaustion, however and his eyes were almost drooping shut of their own accord.

"You alright?" he grated, and coughed again.

"I'm fine, Watson." I croaked, crawling back over the fellows body and securing the door again.

A discarded sash proved adequate to secure the fellow's hands.

"What do we do now…Holmes?" Watson asked when I had done, pushing himself upright, ever ready.

I sighed.

"We go into the next attic, and then we wait, Moriarty must catch that boat train, he cannot afford to stay in London."

"Game of…cat and mouse then?" Watson said wearily.

I nodded. "Precisely, my dear Watson…we will wait, and be as quiet as we can."

**Dr. Watson, in the attic, with the candlestick. :D *cough* Sorry, had to be said. **


	23. The Cavalry

_**Holmes**_

It was nearly an hour later when I at last deemed it time to emerge from our hiding place, not that I was at all certain it was safe but rather out of my concern for my friend. Watson would never admit to it, nor did he complain aloud but he had been growing steadily worse since the earlier tussle with Moriarty's henchman.

I managed to persuade him to move three attics further before he collapsed on the dusty floor, still wheezing and coughing, his movements abnormally sluggish, even for an exhausted man; the coal gas had affected him rather badly.

Even my cautionary bid for movement it seemed, had been premature, for no sooner had he collapsed then he was suddenly on his hands and knees again turning his head away and with a heave emptied his stomach of the breakfast he had so eagerly consumed that morning.

I looked on in pity and surprise for he had said nothing about feeling ill, perhaps he had not felt it for the adrenaline, for he seemed almost surprised as me. The episode passed and he groaned, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and began to sag where he knelt.

I moved automatically to catch hold of him and ease him backward.

He was taking quick, shallow gulps, still coughing deep in his throat, his face now a pasty white where it had been grey before, and rather green around his mouth.

"Blasted gas…" he gasped shortly, color tinging his cheeks in embarrassment, "I'm sorry, Holmes."

I snorted. "It's not your fault my dear fellow, for a medical man you can be very obtuse."

He chuckled weakly, more a wheeze than anything else.

"How long…was I unconscious?"

"Not long…a minute, maybe two."

He grimaced, "No telling then…how much of the beastly stuff…we both…" he stiffened suddenly in my arms, and pushing against me for leverage sought to turn himself over. I helped and he heaved again, dryly this time, with nothing at all emerging, but just as violently.

The episode lasted a minute or two before he finally went limp, his hands quivering on my arm, wheezing and rasping through his too dry throat. He voiced his discomfort again, not so much in a groan as a whimper and settled with his head in my lap, seemingly too exhausted and simply too ill to attempt movement.

Never had I seen him so utterly spent before, and I knew that it was not just from the gas. I needed to know what he had been suffering through the last three days when I was comparatively comfortable in Moriarty's basement.

It seemed inadvisable to press him on the subject now, however, if his breaths just settled to a deeper, steadier rate I would be satisfied.

I took out his watch and examined it, after nine o clock, we had little over an hour to contact Peterson and have him call off the raid, but not enough time had passed for us to emerge in any relative safety, nor, it was obvious, was Watson prepared to make the effort.

My friend hardly stirred even when I took off my jacket, rolled it up and used it as a pillow for his head rather than my increasingly numb legs.

He opened his eyes briefly and watched as I stretched out next to him with my hands behind his head, then he let them fall closed again.

Half an hour passed this way and Watson hardly moved at all, nor was he sleeping however, his breathing was too unsteady and stentorus, and periodically his eyes would flicker open and settle on my face, as though to be certain I was still there.

Finally after fifteen minutes more I reached over to feel his forehead, which was still pasty white like the rest of him.

His skin was dry, he was dehydrated, and his illness had only worsened it, how could I not have noticed?

This combined with his wounded arm, the stress to his nerves and his already exhausted state had finally toppled him.

He needed medical attention…and not his own for once.

As though reading my thoughts he opened his eyes again. They were glazed and grainy and so indifferent to my actions and our surroundings that I was finally decided.

"Get up, Watson." I said softly, taking hold of his shoulders to assist that endeavor.

"Where?" he muttered.

"Downstairs."

A hint of alarm animated his face.

"Can we afford too?"

I met his exhausted gaze, still fixed trustingly on my face…heaven how was it possible for a man too look so weary and still be prepared to stir himself? How did he have the will for it?

"Yes, Watson, get up now."

I moved slowly, to accommodate his sluggish movement and lessen the stress on his still unsteady stomach. He got to his knees and then his feet and we made our way to the front door of the attic and down the small set of steps to a carpeted landing.

To the left was a half open door, probably a bedroom, and with any luck it would have a water pitcher and a bed and might, by this time of the morning, be empty.

It was not, no sooner had we reached it and I swung the door open, then a young woman in a maid's uniform whipped round from where she had been cleaning the mantle.

She took one look at us and then screamed in a manner worthy of any stage actress.

Not that such a reaction should be unexpected, our abrupt appearance, along with our condition, would have alarmed anyone, let alone a girl, more a child then a woman, who is used to being unseen and unheard as she goes about her duties.

We were both unshaven, covered in dust and soot and blood from the chase with the dogs last night, and Watson looked like the living dead.

Watson flinched at the sound and I drew forward to calm her, only succeeding in sending her scurrying towards a corner of the room.

"My dear young lady…" I began.

She screamed again and there were suddenly rapid footsteps on the stair.

A balding, well dressed gentleman with a red face and overlarge sideburns, a barrister by trade, came into view.

"Sarah, what is the meaning of this racket?!"

He stopped as his eyes froze on Watson who was leaning heavily against the doorway.

Still groggy as he was, my Boswell recognized the look in his eyes and held up a hand.

"Sir, I…"

But the man wasn't about to listen to such a disreputable character as my friend appeared. He raised his fist…

…and I caught it, in my own, fighting down a flash of anger as I gripped his hand with steel fingers.

"Unhand me." he barked.

"I will sir If you intend to behave civilly." I said in the most authoritative and imperious voice I could muster. "You might offer my friend a chair as he is about to fall over, and he needs a glass of water."

I looked at the girl pointedly. She had finally stopped shrieking and was watching me with wide, teary eyes, stunned by the educated voice that came from this supposed ruffian.

She nodded and skirting all three of us vanished down the stairs.

Our unwilling host tore his arm free of my grip.

"What the devil are you doing in my home?" he barked. "I'll have the both of you arrested, who do you think you are?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes." I said, grateful for once for Watson's embellished accounts of our cases. My name had a remarkable effect on his face, which changed from anger to suspicion and at last to a sort of dazed wonder.

"S-sir." He stuttered, holding out his hand.

I shook it briefly, regretting my impulsive action as my own was encased in his sweaty fingers and wrung heartily.

"And this is my colleague Dr. Watson. I assure you had we been able to avoid breaking into your house we would have, but we are in some difficulty…"

"Yes…Yes I understand perfectly." The fellow said, "Can I be of any assistance?"

Watson's voice cut through his pandering much to my relief…that was until I heard his faint, tremulous tone.

"Holmes…Holmes, I think I need to sit down…"

To have him admit to such was worrying enough, to have his knees actually buckle was worse. I caught him in time, easing his arm round my shoulder again as our host came to take his other arm. There was no color in my friend's face, not even from embarrassment, and his feet stumbled and dragged as we helped him to sit on the bed. He slumped forward with his head in his hands.

"I say…what the devil's the matter with him?"

_What do you think you moronic blind pencil pusher?_

"He's tired." I said, if the fellow was too stupid to use his eyes then I was not going to spend twenty minutes pointing out the obvious too him.

The maid returned a moment later, with not only a glass but a small pitcher of water. She approached us somewhat warily, though her eyes were alive with curiosity.

"Thank you." I took them from her. "Do you also think you can take a message for me?"

Both she and her employer looked rather thunderstruck at this suggestion, but her curiosity came through.

"Just a moment and I shall write it for you." I set the pitcher on the bedside table, and tapping Watson on the shoulder to get his attention handed him the glass.

"Slowly, old fellow." he glared at me briefly, gave me his _I am the doctor here_ look, and began to sip it.

My audience watched still in rapt curiosity as I scribbled a brief message on a piece of paper, folded it and handed it to the girl along with address of where she must take it.

"it is most important." I told her sternly and she nodded, clutching the paper in one hand and her skirts in the other she hurried from the room.

I turned back to Watson, relieved to see that he was sitting a little straighter and his eyes were not quite so dull as he set the glass aside on the table with a shaking hand.

He looked up at our host and ever gracious murmured his thanks.

The fellow glowed with pleasure.

"Oh no trouble at all…I must say Doctor, I am a great admirer of your stories."

Had everyone read the blasted Strand magazine but me?!

Watson responded with a fraction of his usual smile then looked to me.

"Holmes…should we not send for Lest-."

I cut him short as our host perked up, still watching us like an observer at a zoo.

"It's taken care of, Watson…I think we'd best wait downstairs for our ride. Do you have a sitting room Mr.?"

"Kensington." He said, extending his hand and seizing my own a second time, "John Kensington, a pleasure Mr. Holmes."

Well…at least the display was giving Watson no little amusement as was displayed by his quivering lips as he took another sip of water.

"Yes, there's a room on the ground floor, you're quite welcome to wait…"

"You are most kind," I said with a forced smile.

We made it down the stairs to the room without too much difficulty though noticing my limp (the first thing he had observed all night in fact) the fellow offered to send for a doctor which I declined.

To my relief he did not notice me drawing the blinds as he was too focused on plaguing Watson on his next installment in the Strand.

For the first time since he had tackled the fellow choking me, Watson's eyes shone with some measure of aggravation.

He placated the fellow by signing a piece of foolscap for him. Kensington was so caught up in his new possession and where he would display it that he did not notice Watson slumping exhaustedly against the back of the chair, his breaths still rather labored.

I kept an eye on the street through a corner of the window until at long last I saw the girl returning, and she was very soon after followed by a Hansom.

The girl burst into the house, her face excited and beaming and just before facing her employer I saw her secret a sovereign inside her pocket.

At last the hansom pulled up, and I felt a very odd sense of release as my eyes found the familiar form of its occupant. Watson would be safe now…with his help…we would both be safe.

_**Watson**_

"Watson."

I looked up as my friend's excited tone drew me from my lethargy, Holmes was looking out the window at the street and glancing back at me with a smile. His face was no longer tense, nor his eyes sharp with worry, and a moment later I saw why as the door opened and a familiar, out of breath gentleman made his appearance.

He was flustered, his face rather splotchy and his whole being exuding far more energy then he usually displayed, even his cravat was askew.

His eyes swept the room in one comprehensive glance and then fixed on his brother.

He took a few more deep breaths and his tense shoulders slumped.

"Sherlock." He said, conveying a great deal more in that one word than even I could comprehend.

Holmes, who was quite limp with relief, gave Mycroft a small smile, his eyes already softened in that look of subtle admiration that I had seen first on his face in the case of the Greek Interpreter.

I endeavored to straighten from my slumping position when his eyes settled on me next, but the attempt was sadly sluggish.

I thought I saw some flash of concern across his face at my own appearance, but a moment later he had donned a mask of professionalism that would have put even Holmes to shame.

"Sherlock, do be good enough to help the Doctor out to the carriage."

Holmes, for once, obeyed without question, helping me to my feet once again with a sinewy arm under my shoulders.

Mycroft turned to our host, who had finally abandoned the foolscap and was watching the entire proceedings in wonder.

"Mr. Kensington…" I heard before Holmes and I were at last out of the cursed house and into the hansom.

When I was seated, I turned to my friend.

"You sent for him?"

Holmes was watching his brother out of the still open door. He spared me a glance and nodded.

"Mycroft is one of the very few people I would be willing to trust at the moment Watson. And his connections make him the greatest source of help as you must know."

I did know, but something in the way Holmes' attitude had changed told me that it was not the main reason. He would never admit as much, even to me, but I well knew the sense of security and awe that one associates with an older brother, a sense you can never wholly shake, even when you have long since passed out of childhood.

Mycroft's presence was reassuring enough even without that, for almost the first time in three days I found my tensed nerves relaxing, my reactions shutting down, leaving me exhausted.

I leaned back into the seat and let my eyes as well as my ears close for the first time.

I was vaguely aware of Mycroft reentering the hansom, and of he and Holmes exchanging hushed, though animated remarks.

And then the next thing I knew there was a lurch as our vehicle drew to a stop once again.

I jerked awake on the instant, not entirely relaxed as I thought I had been.

"Easy, Watson."

Holmes' reassuring voice and his hand reached me at once and I calmed again, opening my eyes to see that the hansom had pulled up outside of Mycroft's rooms in Pall Mall, seemingly in the blink of an eye.

My spirits fell a little, for the briefest of moments I had unconsciously thought that we were returning to our rooms in Baker street, which was of course impossible.

"Yes, of course." I said hurriedly, avoiding Mycroft's openly concerned look and Holmes' steadying smile. "I'm fine."

"It is only a little further, Doctor." Mycroft said. "Here, take my stick Sherlock." He opened the door and dismounted the cab.

Holmes and I followed, he awkwardly because of his leg and I far slower than either of them.

To my surprise Mycroft did not lead us to his rooms but rather across the street towards the Diogenes.

Holmes, who was just as startled as I, exchanged a puzzled look with me. Neither of us had time to speculate on the matter before Mycroft had taken hold of my arm to help me along and was already answering our question as though he'd been able to read it upon our faces; which he probably had.

"I've arranged for rooms," he said, "The club will be better suited to your needs, and the Doctor has already proved to me that it is safer then my flat."

This odd remark was enough to draw Holmes' attention.

"Watson?" he asked, and I opened my mouth awkwardly.

Mycroft interceded, "He came straight to me after you failed to make your appointment on the train, Sherlock. He proceeded to break into my rooms and then later vanished in the same fashion."

Holmes looked at me and smiled appreciatively.

We reached the club without incident and I breathed out in relief as the stately doors closed behind us. I had only been here once before, but I well remembered the marble halls and bohemian reading rooms as well as their silent occupants.

It was almost comforting to feel the stifling sense of hush again, a hush that the occupants of this club did their utmost to preserve. Surely if we would be safe and out of mind anywhere it was here.

Not that many of the other occupants appreciated our appearance in the slightest. Indeed the scandalized look of the doorman as we were admitted made me believe that nothing of this sort had ever happened here before.

_**Unprecedented I know, but seriously, these boys deserve a suite in Buckingham palace after all they've been through, let alone rooms in the most recluse club in London…and besides, we don't want Mycroft strangling Holmes until after he's caught up with Moriarty, so I thought it best he gets to keep his rooms to himself. **_


	24. Interlude

_**Again, sorry about the delay you guys, I have the next chapter already typed so it will be quick in coming. **_

_**Holmes**_

"Ah, Doctor."

I looked up as my brother broke off our discussion. Watson was just entering the room, closing the door softly behind him, I had noticed since our reunion that he was moving with a distinct lack of noise, as though he still unconsciously believed he would be overheard.

He looked better for a wash, shave and a change of clothing, and he had put up little fuss at being examined by the surgeon Mycroft had brought in.

His damaged arm was still red and swollen but there was no sign of any deep-set infection; the fellow's main concern had been his lungs, which had been seriously agitated by the gas and which occasionally set him to coughing. He had prescribed some unpleasant syrups which I would never have swallowed and instructed Watson, as a fellow physician, to watch his own breathing and see that he was getting enough oxygen.

He had then moved on to poke and prod at my leg despite my vehement protests that Watson had already tended to it.

Watson smiled tightly at Mycroft's greeting and at once seated himself beside me, leaning rather heavily on the table, his eyes fixed blankly on the tea service before him.

Catching my brother's extremely furrowed brow and worried grimace I poured Watson a cup and set it before him.

He blinked in surprise, murmured his thanks and began to sip it slowly, still staring…as though he did not taste it.

"I thought you were going to rest, Watson." I said at my Mycroft's silent prompting.

Watson swallowed another sip and shook his head, setting down his cup to rattle slightly in its saucer.

"No…I'm not very tired."

My friend was, as I have said on many occasions, a very poor liar, but this one was paramount. His head was practically resting in his hand with his elbow on the table, his face was lax and pinched still in places and the shadows under his eyes brought to mind the coons of the American backwoods.

"Have you heard from Patterson?" Watson cut off any chance of a rebuke, turning his dull, heavy-lidded eyes on me with some effort.

"He's just sent a telegram." Mycroft answered quickly, "He carried on with the raids, though with less men then he planned…it seems you were right about the Professor's intentions towards him, Sherlock, he was shot in the left shoulder."

Watson swore, took another sip of the tea and clenched his fingers distractedly in his hair.

"Didn't he send anyone to cut them off at the boats?"

My friends' voice was sharp with annoyance, not that I blamed him, had we been able to communicate our knowledge of Moriarty's plans sooner we might have had more success.

"He did, Watson." I said "But there are a number of ways out of London, scores of ships heading for the continent alone…we did manage to trace one of his lieutenants and they're going to head him off now."

Watson sighed in some disgust.

I put a hand on his shoulder in hopes of calming him.

"We did all we could, old fellow…and we won't let it lie here…Moriarty's organization has been frozen at least, and we will find him, rest assured."

He nodded, staring now into the murky depths of his cup. "Just seems a waste." He muttered, "After all you went through."

And all _he'd_ been through, I should never have dragged him into this affair…Mycroft's concerned scowl told me he was in direct agreement.

My brother spoke up as the tense silence threatened to settle, effectively dispelling it with his easy, reassuring manner.

"Sherlock and I were just discussing that very thing, Doctor. No doubt my brother has told you that Moriarty has several bank accounts in Switzerland, it is likely he will get to them before we can find sufficient means of stopping him, but we do know where he is headed."

"And as long as we can trace him we can stop him." I affirmed, "He is not unknown any more Watson, he will find the continent very hot with the police of several countries on his heels."

My friend met my gaze, his hopeful nature battling against the fatalistic attitude it had been subjected too for the past few days, hopefully that would fade now that we could rely on each other again.

But the calm that would heal such a connection had yet to wait it seemed, no sooner had Watson begun to relax marginally then there was a great ruckus outiside in the hall and one of the doorman, a pasty-faced fellow with thinning hair slicked flat against his head, poked his head into the door.

"Mr. Holmes!" he babbled in alarm, his composure and attire already showing signs of the stress that had already broken the quiet of the club earlier that morning. (namely Watson and myself).

This abrupt interuption into our peace did nothing for Watson's nerves.

"Easy, Watson." I put my hand on his shoulder as he half rose from his chair, his shoulders already tensed and quivering, his eyes wide and fearful.

He shot me a grateful look but remained poised, reaching automatically into his pocket before he realized that his revolver would not be there.

Mycroft levered himself to his feet with a groan. "Sherlock, this is the last time that I shall ever allow you to involve me in one of your affairs, it requires far too much energy. I'm coming, Millbrook, I'm coming."

They left the room leaving the door slightly ajar. Watson kept his eyes fixed on it, shuddering slightly.

I got to my feet, and putting my hand on his other shoulder pressed him downward.

He jerked slightly, looked up at me and reluctantly settled down in his seat, his fingers gripping the arms.

I leaned against the table and removed one of my cigarettes from its case, perhaps if I behaved calmly so would he.

"Do you see any matches, Watson?"

He looked around, rather startled at the question, spotted the folder that was sitting on the table and made to strike one for me.

It wavered violently but I ignored it, knowing how chagrined he already was at this obvious show of nervousness.

I drew on it for a few moments and watched while he slowly relaxed by degrees…his eyes never leaving the door.

"You're nerves are already shot to pieces, my dear fellow, without you jumping at every little noise."

He looked at me, fear and adrenaline making his pupils oddly large.

"Can you blame me?"

I leaned over to put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"He's hardly likely to find us here, Watson, even if he could get to us-"

"You know he could." My friend's voice was filled with dead earnestness. "He's already found us everywhere else, Holmes, what makes this so different?"

I squeezed his shoulder.

"He's on the run now, Watson. He cannot move through London with the same ease and anonymity as before, nor does he have so many resources at hand…that is if he is still in Britain at all."

His resolution faltered, his eyes hopeful. "Do you really think he may be gone?"

"I am almost convinced of it, Watson, if he stays here, he will be caught, he's no fool. He will do what I should do which is to leave the country for a time, and see about reorganizing when he has had a chance to regroup. This is merely a stalemate, though a peaceful one, you can rest easy old fellow."

He seemed almost visibly to relax at my words, and the shaking of his shoulders lessened and spread to an almost imperceptible trembling of exhaustion.

He let his head rest in his hands again and gave a long, shuddering sigh.

"I'm sorry, Holmes…I don't mean to be like this its' just-"

I opened my mouth to head off his unnecessary apologies but was interrupted myself by a commotion outside the door.

Watson's head jerked up once again when the door suddenly opened to admit Millbrook, followed closely by Mycroft and…

I felt a surge of amusement at the sight of the little fellow, who was talking animatedly to my brother as one does to an equal, his high, piping voice comically contrasted to Mycroft's rumbling.

Millbrook looked extremely disapproving but knew better than to comment as Mycroft led our irregular into the room.

Alfie suddenly took notice of his change of surroundings and seeing not only me but the Doctor his small round face lit up like a beacon.

"Doctor, yew found Mr. 'Olmes!"

He lost no time in dropping the grubby bundle he had been holding and launching himself at my friend, practically toppling Watson's chair as he wrapped his arms around his neck in his customary fashion.

"Oi told yew yeh could Doctor! An' ye've gone and done it! OI told yew yeh could!"

I saw a genuine smile steal across my friend's face for the first time since our latest encounter with Moriarty, he laughed tiredly and returned Aflie's enthusiastic embrace with his good arm.

The urchin sat back, running his eyes over my friend in a cursory inspection; it seemed that Watson's weariness was painfully obvious for the lad's face fell slightly.

"Cor, Doctor, yew've gone and let yourself get clobbered, Pete said yew was in a fight but yew look 'alf dead to me." He turned his eyes on me and glared fiercely as though it was my doing…which in a roundabout way it was.

"I'm fine, Alfie." Watson said, "Just a little tired is all."

The irregular bit his lip dubiously at this pronouncement but a moment later he was mad aleck again, sliding to the ground and hurrying to gather the package he had dropped and a second one from the table where Mycroft had set it.

" 'Old on Doctor, Oi've got somethin' for yew... Yew too Mr. 'Olmes."

Mycroft had come to stand beside me, greatly amused by the whole proceedings.

"How did he get in?" I asked quietly.

Mycroft smiled. "They've apparently been keeping a watch on my rooms ever since this one delivered the folder to me, he got word that you'd arrived and made his presence known to the doorman. He refused to be dislodged until he'd seen you both."

Alfie put the first package into Watson's arms and then passed the second, bulkier one to me.

The instant it touched my hands I realized what it was. I drew in a sharp breath, unprepared at this sudden…and very welcome development. I laid it carefully down on the table, and untying the mismatched string, I pulled the cloth apart to reveal a somewhat battered, though very familiar instrument.

My Stradivarius…its bore one or two more scratches than before, and one of the strings was missing, the resonant, glowing finish was smudged by ash and small, dirty fingerprints…but it was whole, and it was here, and I could not stop myself from running my fingers lovingly across its edges and graceful curves.

Alfie's face was glowing and he grinned outright at my speechless reaction.

I found the bow as well, tucked beside it in the wrappings a little more the worse for wear, with the hair fraying rather badly but it touched me that Alfie had thought to include it at all.

"Oi 'ope you don't mind Mr. 'Olmes, the case was fallin' apart, oi tried to be careful."

I swallowed, brushing away the ash from the smooth surface.

"This is…splendid Alfie." I said, finding my voice at last, I had thought it to be lost in the fire for certain. "Thank you."

Fairly bouncing with praise the irregular turned to watch Watson.

My friend had neglected to open his own parcel while watching me, and now he did so hesitantly, not wanting to disappoint the lad and torn between curiosity and dread.

Predictably, it contained books, five of them, all with battered and thoroughly burnt covers and charred page edges, Watson lifted the first one and carefully eased it open.

I breathed out in relief, the pages inside were undamaged, they were practically falling out of the bindings but Watson's solid, angled handwriting stood out sharp and clear for all to see.

Watson's breath came out in a great sigh, and he began as I had done to examine the object with increasing excitement.

"The Baskerville case." He breathed running his fingers along the lines. "It's all here Holmes!"

I smiled and Alfie fairly glowed.

All five of them were his journals with an additional, thinner medical pamphlet stuck in-between. They were for the most part legible. When he had examined each one he set them aside with shaking hands and pulled Alfie into a second embrace.

"Thank you, Alfie." He said roughly as though around some obstruction in his throat.

Alfie frowned, somewhat puzzled by the degree of my friend's gratitude and the effect the gift had had on him. He returned the embrace squeezing tightly and then patted him on the back.

"Cor, Doctor…'t'weren't nothin', we just wen' over when the copper's stopped muckin' about, Wig 'n Bert 'elped."

Watson let him go and sat back. "Thank you all the same…it means a great deal."

The irregular nodded.

"OI'm sorry that oi 'ave to go now, Doctor, on'y me gran 's'spectin' me, and then Bert 'n me 'ave plans. Oi'm glad yew found Mr. 'Olmes though."

Watson was having trouble speaking again.

He nodded silently. "Go…go on then." He gave the lad a shaky smile which Alfie returned.

"Roight, yew watch after 'im Mr. 'Olmes, 'ee looks like 'ees about to fall over. An' don' neither of you go dissapearin' again."

And with these last few words of sagely wisdom, our irregular swiped a teacake from the table and darted past Millbrook out the door, eliciting a cry of outrage from that person.

Watson managed to wait until they'd both left the room before he did fall over.

_**Couldn't help it, the Stradivarius and the journals are practically sacred.**_


	25. Fading Nightmares

_**Holmes**_

"No, I'm fine I…" his voice cracked, and I strongly doubted it was all because of a dry throat.

I ignored his protests, gripping him under the arms to lift him to his feet.

"I'm fine, Holmes." he repeated, trying to pull away from me and take his weight back off my injured leg.

His voice was so unsteady and tremulous that it alone would have convinced me that he was not himself; aside from that his face was chalky white again, and his arm shook on my shoulders.

Mycroft watched worriedly, still hovering at my shoulder where he had been since Watson's collapse, only a step or so behind myself.

Some faint color came to Watson's cheeks at the fuss but I took as little notice of that as I did his protests. Fixing his arm firmly about my shoulders, I walked him back out of the small sitting room to the comfortable bedroom Mycroft had arranged for him.

His legs gave way again before we reached the bed and he would have buckled to the floor were it not for my hold on him, indeed were it not for the fear-born adrenaline that numbed me now I might not have accomplished the feat for the pain in my leg.

I managed to pull him to the bed and he collapsed into a sitting position upon it, already out of breath from that short exertion.

He had gotten himself fully dressed before coming out, the stubborn fool. How he had managed the feat at all I didn't know for I could make out a slight sheen of sweat on his furrowed forehead and his hands were trembling to badly to grip anything properly.

I bent to pull his shoes off and his dull eyes suddenly blazed with anger as the color in his cheeks brightened.

"Holmes, I'm fine!"

His tone was so vehement that at last I heeded his words and looked up at him, I had to fight down a laugh that would have sounded very odd with the slightly hysterical edge that would have come with the worry and anger that gnawed at me.

How very like my Watson to deny fact and oppose odds even when he couldn't keep his feet and it was not so much staring him in the face as forcing itself down his throat; suddenly I did not seem so impossible that he should have been one of the few of his company to survive in Afghanistan.

When I had schooled my emotions I went back to tugging at his shoe-laces and spoke in what I hoped was a cool and rational voice.

"For a Doctor, you are behaving very stupidly."

My bluntness made some of the mindless anger drain from his face, he looked more subdued suddenly, almost fearful.

"I'm not tired." he said with less conviction.

"You are, you've just been on your feet so long you no longer feel it." I softened my voice, "You know the signs better than I, my dear fellow, you've just collapsed in a near faint."

"I've never fainted in my life."

I tackled the laces on his other shoe, they were tied rather poorly.

"Then let's make this the first and last near-faint shall we?" I pulled off his shoes, set them under the edge of the bed and rose to my feet again.

I faced my friend to see that he was glaring outright at me, his previously overbright eyes were now dull and blank with a stolid obstinacy.

"I don't need you're help." He said.

I sighed, "Watson…"

But he shook his head, looking away from me again, fumbling to shrug off his jacket. Gentle cajoling would do nothing now, I recognized bullheadedness when I saw it, being a frequent applicator of that trait myself.

I moved to help him but no sooner had my hands touched the collar then Watson shied away from my touch, his face coloring fully now, his eyes pointedly downcast.

"Please, Holmes!"

I pulled back, surprised at his vehemence.

He looked at me at last, still embarrassed, the color darkened and he looked away again.

"I just want to be alone."

I straightened, "Will you at least get some rest old fellow?"

I saw him grit his jaw and an almost inaudible sigh escaped him as he suppressed the urge to snap at me.

"Yes, I will…Just…stop fussing like a maiden aunt will you?"

I smiled, as he pronounced this last with some touch of his pawky humor.

"Alright, Watson." I made my way to the still open door, "Call if you need anything."

He did not even respond to that, still shrugging off his jacket, his eyes still downcast and his shoulders hunched.

I shut the door quietly behind me and made it a few steps before the gnawing bite of anxiety that had exploded at Watson's collapse suddenly came back.

He was going to rest, rest was what he needed, he had been on his feet for days overextending not only his body but also his mind, and with his overactive imagination and very vibrant emotions I could only imagine how it had affected him.

Rest was what he needed and he was going to take it, his privacy and safety were assured here in my brother's club, there was no place safer, this was his chance to recover in peace and the last thing he needed was my hovering when he was obviously embarrassed and needed to sleep so badly.

Why then could I not banish this…inexplicable fear in my chest?

Was it my failure to secure Moriarty? Something I had become almost resigned too during my captivity and took no notice of later out of concern for Watson?

Perhaps, and the best way to relieve that was to further my plans to draw my net around him again.

As for Watson…I was still anxious about him, I knew that. I could not cease to worry about him when he was caught up in an affair of this magnitude. I was worried about what might happen to him in the near future.

I would have to deal with that as well, though I did not know how.

I started off again to meet Mycroft, satisfied that I had identified the worry. With it pinpointed I would soon be able to quash the unease and doubt that lingered in the back of my mind.

_**Watson**_

I did try to sleep, for what seemed like hours I lay between the gloriously clean sheets of the bed with the comforting weight of the coverlet upon my chest. Just a few hours earlier I had dreamed, longed, for this very scenario. Being clean with a comfortable bed, able to lie perfectly horizontal for the first time in…I had forgotten in how long, and to be completely at rest without having to keep my mind alert or one eye open.

I had it now, I could stay here for hours, I had been practically forced here by Holmes himself…why then could I not do as my body so badly needed and sleep?

My very body seemed to be against it, my limbs were restless, my back aching against the soft mattress, and even my eyes seemed to refuse to stay closed. I could not seem to find a satisfactory position and when I did finally begin to doze off by holding obstinately still and forcing my eyes closed I jerked awake a moment later when my legs unconsciously shifted.

My unease was centered at my heart, I could feel it thudding in my chest still more rapid than usual, banging against my ribs and sending blood and adrenaline coursing to the rest of my body keeping my mind and my limbs hopelessly alert.

I truly did try to sleep, I wanted it so badly, I wanted to sink into the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness so that I could stop thinking and feeling for a while, so that this continual feeling of anxiety would dissipate.

But sleep remained stubbornly beyond my grasp, and every time I would force myself below the depths I would surface again a moment later with a jerk of movement that would send my heart racing again.

This was preposterous, I was safe here, I would have a harder time finding a safer and more anonymous place in all of London than the Diogenes club. I knew in my head that it was true, Holmes had explained it to me, had assured me. Moriarty was on his way to the continent, his organization was halted, Peterson and his men were picking up the pieces.

And Holmes was safe, through incredible fortuitous circumstances he had been recovered from the very center of Moriarty's web and was at this very moment under the watchful eye of his elder brother, a government- the government official and the most intelligent man in the whole of Britain.

There was no danger, so why was I tensed with every nerve alert as I had been during the war?

No answer and no reprieve was forthcoming, and after a time the covers and the pillows became stifling, and the mattress too infirm for my taste…

…perhaps that was it…I had been sleeping in such unusual circumstances lately that I was uneasy in a normal bed.

I shoved aside the covers, my arms still shaking from exhaustion and overdose of adrenaline; snatching a pillow and the spare blanket from the end of the bed I got down to the thickly carpeted floor and bedded down a second time.

Almost at once, I felt a trifle more secure than I had before. As a soldier I had grown accustomed to sleeping on hard-packed earth, and feeling a solid surface once again at my back was reassuring. I knew the floor…it was an old comrade.

Another thing I had grown accustomed to as a soldier was catching sleep whenever I could, and blazes if I wouldn't do so now.

I closed my eyes again, concentrating on the still, solidity of the floor beneath me, trying to reconcile it with my still erratic heartbeat.

Finally…after an age, I felt myself slip away into an uneasy semblance of sleep.

_**Holmes**_

Watson thankfully slept the remainder of the afternoon, and there was no sound from him even when Mycroft had left for his rooms.

Mycroft had spent the majority of the time splitting his attention between me and the work he had brought over from Whitehall, it seemed that he was not going to let me out of his sight for a while at least.

Indeed, once or twice while I paced agitatedly in the small room I caught him sneaking glances at me and then staring me down when I caught him at it.

Watson had told me before that it was natural for siblings to worry about one another, that it was a most common and natural occurrence, but I had to admit that I did not expect my brother to be so effected by my kidnapping. Grieved, certainly, I would have been disappointed if he hadn't, but anxious after the fact. Most illogical.

I let him win the staring competitions though.

When he had at last been driven nearly mad by my silent smoking other agitations he tossed down his pen, got up from his chair and declared he was returning home early that evening and that he would see me on the morrow. This break in his pattern was almost as alarming as the disgruntled manner in which he packed away in his papers. For Mycroft this was akin to throwing a fit.

"Watch after the Doctor," he said, picking up his case and passing me on the way to the door.

"Goodnight brother." I muttered distractedly and added as an afterthought, knowing Watson would be after me if I did not. "Thank you."

To my abject shock I suddenly found myself entrapped by one of his enormous arms as it wrapped round my shoulders and pulled me round to face him in an embrace.

For a moment he held the position and I was too stunned to do anything, then just as abruptly he let me go, his gaze lingering on me for a moment more.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." He said softly, "If you sneak away tonight and manage to get yourself into trouble again I shall not get you out of it."

"Watch after the, Doctor." He repeated and then left without another word.

For another moment or two I stood stunned and then was jerked back to reality by the burning of my fingers by my lit cigarette.

I could recall very few occasions when I had been embraced by my brother, in fact I could count them on one hand…well…two now.

And why was he so concerned with Watson? He was sleeping peacefully and it was hardly likely that he would come to any harm in the heart of the Diogenes, and I was not about to agitate him as even I admitted that I needed a respite to for my le.

It was only an hour or so later when I realized what he had already foreseen what would happen.

I had just finished off another cigarette and tossed it into the grate along with the small heap of others.

I wished I had my pipe, in this state I had a habit of gnawing on the ends and it left a nasty taste and loose shreds of tobacco on my tongue.

Of course, I realized with a jolt, my pipe was not available, was not likely even in one piece if it had survived in the rubble of Baker street. My eyes were drawn at one to the table where rested the few possessions that Alfie had recovered for us.

I couldn't play my violin here, even if it was not missing a string...Watson's journals stood where we had left them, hastily stacked in un uneven pile, leaving a scattering of ash upon the polished surface.

I drew closer, and the shock of the jolt turned to a rather strong remorse.

How many of these had Watson written? How many of his careful notes had been lost in the fire?

More than this I was certain, I recalled shelves of them above his desk. And all that remained were these few, sad volumes.

I gently turned the topmost cover and it promptly broke off in my hand, sending even more ash cascading over my shoes.

I laid It down hastily, the remorse sharpening to guilt.

I moved to light another cigarette instead, now was not the time to be lost in remorse, there were still a million things to settle , I had to plan, to rectify my blunders by bringing Moriarty to justice…

And then I heard the sound.

I jerked my head at once in its' direction, my nerves afire and my heart beating rapidly in my chest.

It seemed I was not the only one in need of a settling rest.

It came again, faint, rising and then falling again, quavering off. I had not heard such a sound very many times in my life but it was not difficult to recognize because of its singularity.

It was the plaintive, wordless cry of a man in distress, and one thought filled the attic of my brain as I realized who it was, crowding out any other thoughts.

I dropped the cold cigarette and crossed the room as swiftly as my leg would allow, into the small hallway of bedrooms and then stopped before the door of my friend.

I did not bother to knock or wait a third time for the sound I had the door open so abruptly that it almost crashed into the wall as it swung inward.

Watson's bed was empty, the bedclothes in disarray.

My heart gave another jolt and my mouth went instantly dry. I hurried forward into the room…and switched on the gas, an object suddenly solidified at my feet, seeming almost to emerge from the darkness.

My friend was on the floor, rigid in a paroxysm of terror, tangled in the single blanket around his lower limbs.

He jerked and twitched and cried out again, his voice rising in pitch to something more akin to a sharp animalistic howl of pain than anything else. He twisted violently upon the floor, and hand of his injured arm struck the frame of the bed.

He was going to hurt himself, flailing about like that, was the thought that filled my currently one-track mind, and impulsively I knelt beside him and took hold of his wrist.

In retrospect, I could have taken a wiser course of action, but of course at that time my thoughts were muddled by my concern for him and I was hardly worried about my own safety.

So I was unprepared when his free fist came flying in a wild hook at my head. It caught me on the jaw and almost tipped me backward. I somehow managed to stay balanced on my knees and took hold of that fist as well, trying to hold him still as he flailed about, gasping.

"Watson." I shook him, my grip hardened by my anxiety. "Watson!"

He came awake with a jerk, his eyes flying open in his pale face, wide and black, searching wildly about him.

"Watson." I whispered, letting him go in my relief as he gasped for air, his chest heaving.

He looked at me, his eyes latched at once onto mine and I felt an almost physical shock, a blow as tangible as his fist had been.

Watson's eyes, which are often indicators of his moods were very rarely closed to me. They had been for the last little while however, glazed and hidden, as though barring himself from the world.

Now they were open again, wide and unguarded by the terrors of a violent nightmare the sort of which he had not had for years.

I felt the weight of his wounded gaze, and saw for the first time that my friend was not only exhausted, or even nervous, he was frightened, had been badly frightened. It had been festering in his veins for days, hounding him and driving him…perhaps from the first moment he realized that I would not be catching the train.

For all his stoic and able nature and his afghan experiences, I tended to forget that Watson was a man very open to emotion. It ruled him as much as I was ruled by logic, and for the sake of both his own and my safety, as well as the importance of this case, he had shoved his rampaging emotions down into some dark corner and had forgotten about them.

And now they were back with a rage, burning in his eyes, fear and anger and frustration and grief…fear most of all…he was shaking with it.

He had every right to be afraid of course, Moriarty had very nearly succeeded in killing him, though I suspected that was not the main cause of Watson's anxiety.

He was, very much the antithesis of my friend, the professor…Moriarty was an individual who would crush a man underfoot with the same callous disdain as one crushes an insect. Watson, on the other hand, cared too much and too easily for most unfortunates he came across, I doubted I would ever find a man who had as much regard for humanity as he.

Of course he was reacting badly from this, it made his control and accomplishments all the more impressive…or perhaps it was because of these qualities that he was able to withstand Moriarty…

All this passed through my mind with the ease and quickness of all my other deductions, and it was so obvious and clear in my head that I wondered how I could not have realized it before.

But I still did not know how to help him get over this gnawing anxiety, this black horror that hung over his head.

"Holmes?"

He was looking at me in some puzzlement, surprised not only to find himself on the floor in a tangle but to find me bending over him…and his tone was anxious.

In three days he'd had all the security and familiarity of his life ripped out from under his feet…and it was all my fault.

I wanted to steady him somehow…to convey to him that at the very least I would still be watching out for him…surely he was used to that sort of thing…to relying on comrades and only comrades in a battlefield.

He was shivering, not only from cold though his forehead shone with sweat. His brows furrowed as his eyes locked on a spot on my jaw.

He swore softly in that same quavering voice. "Did…did I strike you?"

Dear Watson.

I was just as surprised as he when suddenly I took hold of his shoulders and pulled him up into an embrace…steadying him as he trembled with the after effects of the nightmare.

He was rigid, and for a moment I thought I might have overstepped myself a bit, though the gesture felt much the same to me as when I had been embraced by Mycroft earlier.

What did one say to a man, of his caliber and tenderness of heart, who had just withstood such a terrible nightmare of three days?

I tightened my grip and taking an inexplicably shaky breath myself, spoke.

"It's alright…old fellow."

His shaking had worsened, and he was still rigid as stone, I swallowed my own embarrassment and allowed the words escape my mouth without reserve.

"I'm here…and the devil if I'll let anything happen to you!"

A convulsive shiver ran through him and he began to shake violently, trembling.

Suddenly his arms gripped me back, wrapping around my thin chest and hooking round my neck with enough force to drive some of the air from my lungs. I felt his square chin on my shoulder, his increasingly shaky gasps for breath filled my ears.

I closed my own eyes against the infuriating burning sensation that began there.

"It's not myself I'm worried about." He gasped after a few moments, his voice choked and thick.

I nodded, and tightened my grip around his shoulders protectively.

His forehead came to rest on my shoulder instead and after a moment his shoulders began to shake, wracked with what I realized must be silent weeping, save for his shaky gasps.

"It will be alright, Watson." I repeated, and his arms tightened in response.

And somehow, though it was most illogical, I felt at that moment, that everything would be.

_**Lets recap…so far Watson has been attacked by three large dogs, had his arm torn up, set fire to his own flat, faced Moriarty's entire criminal organization alone, has been captured three times, chloroformed, ill, suffocated, kicked in the jaw by a thug, hasn't slept on a proper bed in four days, had a serious nightmare and has been pestered for his autograph…all he got for it was a glass of brandy, some lousy breakfast, some water that he was too nauseated to drink properly, five crispy journals, an out of date medical pamphlet, and one self-absorbed detective.**_

_**Now anyone who thinks Watson didn't deserve a hug from his BEST FRIEND just then can raise their hands.**_

_***fingers baseball bat* **_

_**No? I thought not.**_


	26. Regrouping

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My apologies to everyone, here is your update, more soon to follow.

_**Quick review coz its been a while. Moriarty has fled from London, Holmes and Watson are safe *thank heaven* and have just spent the night at the Diogenes. None of this is meant to be slash, they're just both exhausted and worried from fighting a war. Comrades room together all the time. **_

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_**Watson**_

I awoke the next morning in a comfortable huddle on the floor, with my neck cramped from sprawling over Holmes' sinewy arm. The man himself was dead to the world, his head cushioned on my pillow and his long legs stretched out before him.

The blanket had been tucked about me at some point, I had apparently drifted off to sleep again and rather than disturb me my friend had remained to see that I remained free of the nightmares that had plagued me through the first part of my rest.

Apparently it had worked, for my bones seemed to creak in protest as I sat up and I recognized the cramp that comes from prolonged periods of sleep. So complete had my rest been that it left my mind in a slight daze, moving groggily like the wheels of a cart that have been imbedded in a pool of mud and must be extracted.

I was also exceedingly hungry. Which I supposed was a good thing. I didn't really know anymore. It is a remarkable experience to have one's life turned on its head in an instant and to lose things like regular meals and sleep. It was rather like being a child again, with no opinions whatsoever, but a mind rested and ready to absorb.

Lightened, if not reassured by this attitude, I turned to my lightly snoring companion and shook his shoulder gently.

"Holmes."

My friend stirred slightly, and then came awake all at once, as he was apt to do, nearly bowling me over as he sat up, raising one hand to shove me away, and the other to rub at his face.

"Mmm?!"

"I think it may be morning old fellow." I said softly, unaware due to a lack of windows in the small room, and also the fact that my pocketwatch had been lifted sometime between the fateful train and last night…though my other losses were such it hardly seemed to matter.

Holmes blinked, peered at me with somewhat unfocused eyes, hair tousled like one of his irregulars and then at the odd surroundings in which he found himself.

"Unless our instincts are entirely off, I would concur with your theory." He said succinctly, as though he'd never been asleep, in that instant his eyes had sharpened to their usual astuity. "At the very least my stomach agrees with you."

I repressed a smile. "Did you perhaps learn to have a better appreciation of food during your captivity Holmes?"

He snorted, but I could see the amusement behind his eyes, and the relief that I was myself again. "Don't be pert."

He shoved aside the blanket and shot to his feet.

Or rather he tried too.

He was abruptly halted by his leg which was as unresponsive to the rest of his body as a dead log. He pitched forward, managed to catch himself on the bed, and promptly covered the pain by filing the air with profanities.

I was not fooled, for his face was white again and his teeth bared in a grimace as he clutched at the offending limb.

I was at his side in an instant, though feeling nearly as sluggish as his leg was.

"You overworked it." I said, kneeling as he lowered himself to sit on the mattress.

Holmes said nothing, but watched tight-lipped as I pushed up his trouser leg and examined the bandages that covered a good portion of his calf.

It had swollen, as was inevitable, but when I loosened the bandaging there was no evidence of pus or scarlet coloring. Rather the skin was an irritant red, with profuse bruises that had darkened rapidly. The stitches were holding well, and only one graze seemed to bear any signs of concerning infection. It was healing and there would not likely be any setbacks when it was so well on its way…but it looked deucedly painful.

I covered it again and rose slowly to my feet, meeting Holmes' anxious gaze.

Not anxious because of his leg.

Anxious that it might impair him.

"Yes it is going to be a problem." I said "If you overtax and tear the muscles so they cannot heal properly. The infection is only standard but it needs to rest, at the very least you will have to walk with a stick."

I had long ago grown accustomed to giving Holmes the least requirements for healing, he never followed the maximum.

He did not like this one either, he swore again and winced as he tried to regain his feet more slowly. I pulled his arm around my shoulders, helping him to stand.

"Its stiff!"

"It's called healing."

"Well it's deucedly uncomfortable!" he barked, as though I alone were responsible.

"I'm sure Mycroft has several walking sticks you can use." My friend brightened visibly at the mention of his sibling.

"Ah yes…he should return this morning unless his schedule is completely overturned. He will have a wealth of information for us…but I rather think we should have some breakfast before we see to that."

I blinked, steering Holmes around the door and into the hall, very slowly to accommodate his limping gait. "Holmes…I think this is the first time that we have both been ravenous on one of your cases."

"This is not_ one of my cases_, Watson." he said with a grin that rather put on in mind of a predator. "This is _the_ case. We are on something of a campaign, and soldiers must eat…am I right?"

I readily agreed, feeling myself lighten even further. Far from the black depression I would have expected Holmes to display, he bore that remarkable vitality that only applied to his bizarre and unusual cases. If I was honest with myself I would almost expect that he was glad Moriarty had twisted round his plans, making things more challenging for hm.

And this joy he could not help but share with me, unusual as it was.

Whatever life with Sherlock Holmes may be, it was certainly never dull.

The clock in our little sitting room told us that it was indeed morning, if somewhat early (for we both of us had been resting all the previous day). There were no windows in our room for obvious reasons, but I knew that the sun would not have yet risen over the jagged skyline of London. Holmes however, stuck his head out the door with myself watching tensely, I was still quite as unsettled as a gunshy hound. The steward soon presented us with an admirable breakfast (some of the Diogenes members were eccentrically early risers), and we applied ourselves accordingly.

Holmes ate with gusto but almost too fast, nearly smothering himself with some toast before I persuaded him to slow down. He did so reluctantly, realizing that the time would go no faster for all his speed. He soon slowed into the remarkable patience he'd shown throughout the whole of this affair. He was content that whatever contest he was presented with, Moriarty would make it worthwhile.

That morning is one of the fondest of my memory, for after we had eaten, and with all Holmes' efforts on the case exhausted, we had nothing to do but to talk. I listened with indignation to my friend's story of captivity, and Holmes to the details of my own account. I need not say that I was quite warm with pride for never has my friend expressed such open admiration at my efforts, his face was fairly glowing with it.

The clock had struck eight before we had lapsed into comfortable silence, and Holmes at last retired to his bedroom with my assistance, and then I to mine.

I changed mechanically, and was almost through with my ablutions when there was a knock at the outer door and I heard it open.

Holmes' own door burst open without a pause and I heard him fall heavily against my wall with another curse.

I put aside my razor, dapped at the nick on my jaw (I was, as I have said, still jumpy) and hurried out to help him to his feet.

Mycroft was helping himself to a fresh pot of tea when we emerged. He took one look at us and sighed, taking a sip.

"Sherlock you always were disreputable, you can clean up as much as you like but you are either as gaunt and desperate as a criminal or you are bearing bruises and scrapes like badges of honor...I am relieved you finally slept. How are you Doctor?"

"He's better." Holmes remarked impatiently, leaning away from my shoulder and supporting himself on the table. "What has been done, Mycroft?"

Mycroft set down his cup at leisure, reached under the table and drew out an oblong package still wrapped in brown paper. "I picked this up for you. How is his leg, Doctor?"

Holmes looked dubiously at the thing in his hands. "I'm fine…Mycroft—"

"And this for you, Doctor."

I blinked as a box was placed on the table in front of me, longish and obviously heavy.

"…Mycroft!"

I opened it dumbfounded and drew in a gasp of surprise and pleasure, for nestled inside was a firearm, a revolver, so new it still smelled of polish and I could see reflection in the dark metal of the muzzle.

"It is the least I could do, Doctor." Mycroft said with a smile, anticipating my objections. "Colonel Moran's had to be kept for evidence, and it was ungainly at any rate. This should be much more suited to you. I never thanked you properly from saving my brother from his folly."

"…_Mycroft!"_

"Sit down and open it." the elder Holmes turned a sharp look on his sibling and to my surprise, Holmes dropped into his seat with a scowl. He tore the paper away to reveal a heavy, high polished stick that was evidently made of teak; the handle was of a strong metal work as was the tip. Holmes placed it by his side and continued.

"Have you spoken with Patterson?"

"I have." Mycroft took another sip of tea. "They've intercepted the agent. He was taken at Euston station this morning."

Holmes tried to shoot from his chair but was impeded by his leg.

"You needn't rush, Sherlock…this man is not the lead you want. He was apparently responsible for recruiting the manpower from among London's lowlifes. He knows less than you I am certain."

"There are at least five others, Mycroft." Said my friend, leaning forward while his brother calmly cut into an egg. "Do we have any leads on them?"

"We have reason to suspect that two of them went north to Scotland, in an attempt to find passage to the Americas. One is almost undoubtedly headed for the east, we plan to intercept him in Egypt, and one I fear has vanished without a trace."

I had become accustomed to the rapid mode of conversation between Holmes and his brother, and so only listened with half an ear, hoping all would be explained in good time. It is difficult to understand a conversation where only half of it is said aloud.

"And the last?" Holmes was fairly quivering in his seat with agitation. "What of Moran?!"

"He has gone to the continent with Moriarty."

Holmes growled, glaring at the egg as it made its way up to his brother's mouth.

"And of course you expected this."

"Only thanks to the evidence you gathered, Sherlock. You have managed to stir the organization into recognizable reality. It will never be the same, even if they manage to evade our arm. Of course it would never have been possible if Dr. Watson had not rescued your precious folder…whenever will you learn to file things properly?"

"When Watson abandons his precious cough syrup." Holmes made a face at the memory of said medicine.

Mycroft laughed, a deeper, shorter version of Holmes', and the sound fairly made my hair stand on end, For while the younger's meant sure ruin for wrongdoers, the elders rang with omniscience…it leant more meaning to the phrase _inevitable destruction_.

"In that case I hope in vain. Do you have any questions Doctor?"

I tore my gaze away from the revolver, which sat with a comfortable, unfamiliar weigh in my hand.

"Only the most basic." I said. "Where are we going to do now?"

Both Holmes' blinked, then Mycroft went on with hardly a pause, and not a hint of condescension. "Sherlock is going to the continent, Doctor, and logic tells me that you are quite determined to follow in his wake. As risky as it is, he is the only man intelligent enough to finally rid us of this…this…"

"Master Criminal?"

Holmes snorted but Mycroft looked pleased.

"…Quite…You must understand Sherlock…once you leave the country I will be unable to assist you. The French government no more wishes that man's plague than we do…but they are not willing to set aside international jealousies. Also it is quite evident he knows you are alive. He will expect you to come after him."

For the first time in the conversation, I saw some measure of unease cross Mycroft's face.

"If you were sensible, Sherlock, and If you had any respect for your nerves you would not go at all, but allow a professional agent to handle the matter."

He transferred his gaze to me and I was somewhat shocked to see that the evident affection did not depart, though it did alter a little.

"And you might not be so selfish as to involve—"

I snapped the chambers of my new revolver in place and the noise was enough to cut the remark short. Both brothers' expressions said they could read my face quite clearly. Holmes smiled, though his expression was shadowed.

Mycroft sighed, set a package that clinked with ammunition upon the table beside my gun and then drew two envelopes from his jacket pocket.

Holmes took them and I read over his shoulder…we were departing on the same train we would have taken before…only this time in the evening.

"At least, I can ensure Moriarty will not know you are in the country until you move first." Mycroft said, his growling voice somewhat thick. "All the connections are made, if you need an alternate route there several available, they can be prepared in an instant, you have only to show the letter."

I felt my eyes widen at the missive Holmes held and then quickly replaced. The seal was quite unmistakable.

Holmes looked up at his elder brother and to my surprise seemed unable to summon any smart remark.

Mycroft nodded to me, got to his feet and raised his voice a little.

"You are both to _rest_. That is a specific order, even for you, Doctor. Near asphyxiation and tattered limbs are not to be sniffed at. Do keep the gun away from Sherlock, the Diogenes does not appreciate gunfire anymore than talking…nor do we require patriotic insignia to be inscribed in our walls."

He looked at his watch flinched and took up his hat.

"I am _late_. You will receive one last missive from me before the train departs. A cab with rubber wheels and round windows will be waiting for you, along with baggage."

Mycroft paused one last time at the door.

"For heaven's sake, be careful Sherlock."

And then he was gone. Leaving the two of us quite silent, like a couple of sailing ships in the wake of a great trawler.

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**Eeep! Moriarty, the Continent, Guns, Sticks, Ominous Warnings from brother Mycroft. Where will this go next?**

**Tune in to find out a bit later. Until then let me know of your wishes/requests (or complaints because I enjoy a good argument. )**


	27. Afoot Again

**I ask you to forgive any major errors in this chapter. I've finally given up on my muse, so writing this thing was like dragging Mycroft uphill in a snowstorm...with Alfie throwing snowballs. **

**Also, apologies for the time it took for me to get to writing this. since i've fired my muse I'M in charge of updates now, and the next one should be along speedily. I hope this will tide you over for a few days. **

**You're all brilliant by the way. Reviewing even when this story's been dead for so long. I wouldn't have updated without you. **

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_**Holmes**_

"Watson."

My friend looked up slowly, warily. He'd already sensed the unease in my voice, steady man that he was. And unexpected developments were the last things he wanted right now, just when the world had seen fit to steady somewhat.

He'd been polishing his new revolver--redundantly, the thing already reflected the room with a perfect sheen--perhaps it was his way of making it more familiar.

He set it aside now, very close to hand, and scrubbed at his palm with the dirty cloth.

"What is It, Holmes?" brave man, grave news or not he was prepared to take it.

"I have been a perfect fool, Doctor."

His fair brows creased, "Holmes…there's nothing you could have--"

"Not about the raid," I shook my head and his face grew stonier with dread, "About the escape. When an army is retreating…is it a very orderly affair?"

"It never is." He laughed humorlessly, not only from the strain of the last few days that had not yet faded from his soul…but from long experience. "For heaven's sake old man, tell me what you are on about."

"Moriarty," I clenched my hands together and pressed them against my lips. To think that the man had come so close to completely outmaneuvering me, not once but twice, "He is not going to the continent."

"He's already there." Watson tossed aside the cloth, face drawing in outright distress. "And so are we, Holmes…we have only forty-five minutes until the train. Mycroft said that Moran…"

"Oh, he might have sent Moran…but do you really think we have dislodged the spider from its web so easily…especially when some threads of that web remain intact? We have dislodged Moriarty's lieutenants, Watson, but surely they had seconds too…it is conceivable that the professor has a second, skeletal command, ready to step into place in just such an occurrence…one that could hold together so long as he remained to command it. If he goes to the mainland, any chances of that are lost."

I fixed my dear friend with a stern glare…I needed him to keep his nerve, more now than ever. But he was still deeply distressed from the immense effort he'd put forth, saving my life, rescuing the evidence for Moriarty's trial, facing several horrible fates head-on.

"But then why would he send his men away at all?" he asked, he already knew I was right, he'd seen the conclusion of it in my expression. An expression only he could read.

"Decoys, it is perfectly logical, Watson, send the other rabbits out and the hounds will go haring after them, while he remains safe in the den. It is one of the oldest tricks…and it very nearly pulled the wool over my eyes…we cannot get on that train."

My Watson had slowly slouched in his seat, his head rested in his hand and he let out a heavy sigh when I stopped speaking.

I allowed him a moment…but we had not long to lose. "Watson."

He raised his head. "How on earth are we to defeat the man in his own domain, Holmes…even with the help of the police-"

"I fear they will afford us as little safety as before, Watson…our only chance for that is to remain under Brother Mycroft's Watchful gaze. But I am certain, that should we get on that train we will no more make it to the continent than we did before."

My friend, who has ever been a military man, let out a positive growl at this prospect. "We cannot remain under his heel forever…nor will I be housed up like a criminal, no matter how exclusive my prison is."

"My sentiments exactly," I rubbed my hands together…I was fairly itching to be afoot now that I had realized my error.

"What are we to do then?" Watson's shoulders squared unconsciously, his jaw set, innately brave as a bird flying or a man breathing. Courage was in his nature, despite the fear of a hunted animal lingering in his eyes. "Shall we send for Mycroft, campaign a new strategy?"

I smiled at the military flavor of his speech, after only a few days at war. "No…we must leave at once, Watson, or we shall miss our chance." I got to my feet, scouring the room visually, there were a number of things here that would suit my purposes…but the majority would have to be gotten elsewhere.

"What chance?" he was out of his chair and after me as I crossed the little room to my own, stuffing various items into my pockets as I went, leaning rather heavily on Mycroft's stick.

"The train station…Moriarty will expect us there, and when he is disappointed we will follow his man in turn. Go get your things."

He turned automatically to do as bit…but paused in the hall. "Holmes." I palmed a penknife and turned to look at him. He looked uncommonly gaunt in the poorly lit passage; and his eyes had completed their transformation.

They were as hard as crystal…braced, to keep the fear inside them.

"What chance do we have, here in London? I held out some hope for the continent…but here…" he allowed the fear to flicker into view.

An entirely justified fear…good heaven above what was I getting the poor man into? But I could not do it without him. He'd already proven that.

"A better chance than any two men on God's good earth, dear fellow; and with odds like that we would be like ungrateful not to take them." I smiled.

His smile in return was grim and quick, a soldier's smile. "I'll be ready in a moment." he muttered, and vanished into his room…

Gaunt and soldierly; a man of necessity. It seemed I was to be accompanied by something of the man before my own Watson. That shadow of the afghan veteran who had been obliterated by two ghazi bullets and enteric fever. He was now superimposed across my friend. But then who better to have at my back?

_**Watson**_

It was cold for a spring evening; fog filled the air, and turned the breath of the man next to me into clouds of crystals. The fellow was filthy, with a twice broken nose, bushy eyebrows and a dark cap pulled low over his face. He blew into his hands and shivered.

"Was it really necessary for us to appear quite so repulsive?"

The fellow chuckled, "My dear Watson, we hardly want to be welcomed with open arms now do we?"

"I still don't think it was necessary for you to fling mud in my face."

"You threw it at my coat."

"You told me too."

"I suggested you apply it to your own coat, liberally, if you recall…you're hardly filthy enough to be a proper cove."

I snorted and pulled up of the peacoat around my neck. Holmes had somehow chosen one of the most uncomfortable corners of the station for our vigil, but of course he didn't take any notice of the cold.

"You might have kept your watch." I muttered, curious about just what time it was.

"Hardly in character, and we needed some way to pay the pawnbroker." His eyes were fixed intently on the station platform, as they had been for the last little while.

"You didn't pay him…you snitched these and left the watch on his counter."

"Pawnbrokers gossip, Watson. And our only safety lies in anonymity."

"As long as we don't get accustomed to taking liberties," I muttered, looking warily around us since he was not aware enough, "I trust we're still moving within the bounds of the law."

"Of course, Watson."

I didn't know why I bothered. Resignedly I tucked my own gloveless hands under my arms, and waited.

It is a strange sensation, to be so invisible. One grows accustomed to going unnoticed and being jostled about by strangers whose names you'll never know. But it was another thing entirely to have scores of respectable individuals walk past and pay no more attention to you than the brick wall behind you.

Not that I blamed them. With the spoils of the shop, and the application of a little putty, soot, and general roadside filth, Holmes had transformed us both into two nondescript workers of the lowest class. We were unrecognizable for the two relatively respectable gentlemen who'd limped from the Diogenes not an hour before. The clothing was unusually loose and fairly comfortable. But the filth was somewhat undignified.

I had become entranced by the press of people, and the sound of thousands of shuffling feet, voices raised competing with one another, the puffing of steam from the train. I half-closed my eyes before I realized how tired I was.

"Ah!"

I nearly fell off my crate at his sudden outburst. Holmes was straight as a poker…or rather that was his attitude. He remained perfectly in character, slouched and surly, but I might have seen his ears prick forward for all the excitement I could see in his lithe frame.

I sat forward, trying to look unruly as he had instructed, probably only managing to look sulky, "What is it?"

"There, Watson…the man just to the left of the rotund gentleman with the velvet waistcoat?" I frowned and peered…how I wished Holmes took more stock in color, but of course color did not always mean something.

"Over _there_, Watson!"

I looked…and a moment later I spotted him. I admit freely that several days ago I would not have. Was this what it had been like for Holmes when he first deduced Moriarty's existence…did he start to look with suspicion on men who seemed to stand out for no reason.

But stand out he did…there was a purpose in his manner, the way he stood, the way he searched the crowd, the very set of his head. He was dressed shabbily, but not as shabbily as he should have been. His clothing showed signs of some good fortune and his face was colored with health. That bowler hat was most assuredly new. I would not have spotted him without Holmes' prompting of course, but with it seemed painfully obvious now.

"You see him." My friend growled softly in triumph.

"Yes."

"Don't move, Watson, he'll latch onto any sudden movement, but keep your eye on him." I saw him begin to slip away out of the corner of my eye.

"Where are you going!?" I hissed, feeling my heart begin to race within me again. Did he truly think I was going to let him out of my sight here...on _this_ platform?!

"Never fear, I'm going to spy out Moriarty. I will return in a moment. If he moves whistle _Rocky road to Dublin _and wait for me all the same."

"Absolutely not!"

"You promised you'd listen to my instructions."

"I also said I'd not let you leave me behind!"

"Don't make a scene, Watson!" Holmes glared at me, looking fiercer under his new brows…but I would not be cowed, not for an instant. My instinct was to reach into my coat for my gun and get us both out.

"I will make a scene if you leave my sight for a bloody moment. I'll get us arrested if I have to. Don't you dare, Holmes!"

I was ready to reach out and forcibly grab hold of his coat…I could have dragged him out with his leg in the condition it was.

My friend bit down on a retort, fighting down impatience at having to alter his natural inclinations. "If we lose Moriarty, Watson…"

"Then he will surely find us again." I whispered back. "He's done so a number of times already. The problem isn't finding him its remaining hidden!"

More people passed us by, my hands shook and I realized I'd clenched them, one hovered over Holmes' arm, the other over my coat pocket. My friend looked grumpy and indecisive for a moment…then he settled and I was able to breathe again.

"When he moves off we'll follow him. I'll keep an eye on him, you just concern yourself with slumping that bloody back of yours."

I huffed, "Military remember? Uniforms are not over comfortable…and its all for the best anyway…I don't know The _Rocky Road to Dublin."_

"We'll have to remedy that…really, Watson, your lower-class skills leave a great deal to be desired."

"Thank you."

My relief was short lived, for at that moment Moriarty's man turned and abandoned his search, heading for the south end of the platform.

"Here we go." Holmes muttered happily, and pulled me off my own crate with a discreet had on my arm, still leaning heavily on his stick (Which had been disguised with boot polish).

He kept an eye on the shiny bowler bobbing through the crowd and I followed, not concentrating so much on my slump…as on the comforting lump of metal in my pocket.

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**Couldn't help myself, I kept picturing them with Walkie-talkies, *crrk* What'sup Doc? This is Slueth Hound, do you read me? Over *crrrk***

***crrk* Why did you get to choose the codenames? *crrk***

***crrrk* you have to say "Over" Watson. *crrrrk***

**Ahem...not that far fetched is it? And look! More static! :D**

**Anywho...the hunt is finally reversed, will Holmes and Watson manage to tail Moriarty without being seen? Will Watson ever be clean again? And even if they do survive, how will they escape being skinned by Mycroft when he finds out what's happened?!**

**Tune in this saturday for the next exciting installment!**

**Hows that for radio? I could SO do that.  
**


	28. In for Lions

_**Well...One day off the mark's not too bad eh? I have the next chappie started already so rest assured this timely updating will continue. A new muse responded to my ads so we're back in business. **_

**_Be warned, this chapter ends rather darkly, I've always wondered why Holmes seemed to hold back a little where Moriary, and criminals in general are concerned. It takes quite a bit to make him overstep his personal, moral code. That is my explanation for his hesitation. Its important not to become as ruthless as the criminals he's hunting. _**

**_Enjoy, more on the way soon. You guys are amazing with reviews! I can't believe how long some of you have stuck with this! Virtual cookies for everyone!_**

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_**Watson**_

Holmes once told me that trailing men is an art form, and while it is easy enough to grasp the concepts of stealth it is deuced difficult to put them into practice. Years ago when I had started guarding his back during cases he had insisted I learn the skill for myself. That had led to two weeks of "Lessons", and it just happened to fall in a cold, wet October. My leg had never quite forgiven me for it, but I had learnt my lessons well. When I am following someone they can expect to see nothing but innocent bystanders and reassuring normality.

Of course with Holmes they can expect to see nothing at all, but then he is the detective and not I.

Our man saw nothing, and he made no unusual detours. He allowed the main flow of traffic to carry him from the station into the less crowded byways of London, where the buildings grew closer and taller, and the shops grew smaller.

We trailed him past three churches, a gasworks, numerous cab stands and when he finally drew into a neighborhood rife with butcher's shops and an unbelievable distance from where we had started I realized something was wrong.

I tried to signal Holmes, pulling lightly on his sleeve, but he shrugged me off with some irritation, all of his focus seemingly on a pig's head in a window, though in reality it was fixed on the broad back of our retreating quarry.

"Holmes…he is--"

"Leading us? Yes Watson, I'm well aware…but we must allow him to draw us in a little closer before we break away."

There was something almost familiar in his manner…something comfortable, "You've done this before." I accused quietly, pretending to examine the porcine remains, unsavory, glazed eyes stared back at me.

"Of course I have…how do you think I discovered so many of Moriarty's houses of operation in the first place?"

"But that man knows we are following him!"

"No, Watson. For all he knows we might be following _any _of the four men Moriarty set up around the station as bait. He is just following instructions. A line set out in the hopes that the fish will trail after it…much like your beloved fly fishing. How was your holiday by the way?"

I blinked in incredulity, for my fishing holiday had ended on the same day Holmes had climbed into the window at Baker street and started this whole mess. It was a odd thing to concern himself with at this late point.

"It went fairly well…I caught several trout. But that is not what we are discussing." I went so far as to grip his arm and he glared a warning lest out cover should be spoilt.

"Are you saying this is a trap, Holmes?" I glanced at the man who was still making his casual way up the street, I could barely see him anymore, it was well and truly dark now.

"Have you not noticed how easy it has been to tail him?" my friend retorted, "It's evident he hasn't any real aims location in mind either. Who would leave a train station to wander about aimlessly?"

"Then _why_ are we following him?" I pleaded, "We have survived more over the past week than in the past three years! Are you truly going to throw it all away just by walking directly into Moriarty's arms?"

The detective's expression opened for a moment, affording me the insight he offered to no one else, asking me to understand. "I must find him somehow, Watson."

"And would you sacrifice me too in the process?" I hissed. Abruptly his face shuttered, grew sharp with anger, but I cut him off.

"I do not mean it in that manner…but surely you know that my fate is quiet bound up with yours by this point. If you die, Holmes, then there is no way on this earth that I will--"

I never finished the thought as the next events happened quite suddenly. It seemed to me as if I was upright one moment and then flat on my back unable to breathe the next. What really happened is Holmes closed the distance between us in two short strides, threw his arms around me and knocking my feet off balance with his own drove me backwards onto the street.

I was gaping uselessly for air beneath his weight when the glass shielding the pig's heads shattered.

Holmes swore vehemently as people began to point and shout, yelling about vandalism, which was an accurate enough assessment. All they had seen was a tussle between two disreputable fellows and a shattered window.

He collared me the next instant and pulled me up behind him, making for the nearest alley. I was dragged for some yards, for though I had no wind my feet still worked. Shouts and calls followed us, and several ragged individuals braved the refuse of the passage, skidding after us, but the majority stayed at the entrance or went to head us off.

Holmes was far too old a hand at this sort of thing to behave so stupidly. He chose the most disreputable building, stopped at the door and extracted a thin bit of wire from his pocket.

I slumped against the wall, rubbing my poor bruised diaphragm, and wondering how on earth he'd managed to acquire a lockpick so quickly.

He saw my expression but kept his head bent to his work, "Palmed it off a thief." Within a minute the door was open and he dragged me inside the squalid darkness, shutting it behind us.

I barely had time to gasp in some of the dank, clotting air of whatever space we were in before my companion turned to me with a vehement hiss.

"Do you see now why I insist you listen to me when we are in the open, and save your questions for later occasions?!"

I glowered, though he could not see the expression. "What do you mean?"

"You have just had your first encounter with an airgun, and it came that close to blowing your brains out rather than the pig's!"

"Airgun?" it took a moment for the full import of that word to sink in. Holmes had mentioned airguns the first night, he'd been terrified at the thought of them.

"Yes, Watson! Thanks to your interrogation the man tailing our footsteps was able to spot us for what we were…"

My alarm rose. "Who was tailing us?!"

"I hardly think his name matters, but it was his occupation to follow the bait and see if anyone was tailing him. That individual he would take down without compunction I'm quite certain."

I was still chafing under the reprimand, just as he was bristling under my own harsh remark. The tension seemed to crackle there in the darkness, spurred by the nearness of the fate we had just escaped.

"How am I to know if you don't tell me?" I said finally, "How am I to be any use at all?"

Holmes sighed heavily, and shifted to lean against a wall. "Forgive me, it is difficult to change one's methods so late. But that was a deuced stupid thing to do, all the same."

I murmured something polite and accepting, but we were too ruffled for formality to be of any use. In fact it seemed rather humorous to use it in our current situation. We stood in a truce of sorts, getting our breaths back.

"Can we not go after him?" I said at last.

"Who?" Holmes muttered, breathing heavily himself, though I'd only now realized it.

"The man with the gun…surely if he has an airgun at all, then he must have some close connection with Moriarty."

"A reasonable deduction, Watson, But I've no doubt he is long gone by now."

"Really?"

Holmes snorted incredulously, "Why would he not be?"

I shrugged, another useless gesture in the darkness, "He has not done his job."

"He cannot hope to find us in this mess, Watson."

"Perhaps he is not the only one."

"In which case we are in equal difficulty, too many of Moriarty's men is as bad as none at all."

"Right then," I dug in my pocket, drew out a match and struck it.

Holmes blinked rather grumpily in the sudden light…then looked about him.

We were in a stairwell, a floor of hard-packed earth beneath our feet, and a narrow staircase to our left, several grime-streaked windows stood out in the cheap board walls above our heads.

"You do have a knack for finding pleasant retreats," I remarked, earning a grim smile from him.

"At least it is safe for now." He said, and finding a bucket hidden behind the stairs, seated himself comfortably. I collapsed onto the stairs themselves.

The first match burnt my fingers, so I lit a second and put it to one of the Diogenes candles I'd stashed in my pockets. A feeble, but steady glow penetrated the gloom of our stairwell, making it almost cozy.

My hands were still unsteady from my nearest brush with death, it was startling how complacent I was becoming with that…it was rather like Afghanistan again. I gripped my knees to calm them and watched the filthy, soot-blackened man who sat across from me, and at this point, stood for the only sanity left in my life right now.

"It is later now," I prompted, "Are you going to answer my questions?"

"Perhaps if you tell me what they are," Holmes smiled, teeth flashing whitely against his grim exterior, "I am not accustomed to explaining lone points of interest."

"Why were we tailing that man if you knew perfectly well that it was a trap?" I insisted quietly, well aware that my tone was disapproving. I couldn't help it; he was hypocritical to the extreme to lecture me about stupid actions.

"Because, trap or no, he was our best lead to Moriarty."

"And you are so intent on finding him you'd take the risk?" I was almost incredulous. Was my friend really so unprepared for this hunt that he would behave so rashly?

"There are few, alternatives, Watson. Moriarty knows I will not stop until I've found him. He is determined to kill me any way he can. Even with a scheme as blatant as that one was."

"And you are equally out for his destruction as well?"

He raised an eyebrow, as though I was impugning his resolve, "As I always have been."

"But will you go to the same lengths as he?" I asked in a quiet pointed manner so he could not skip over this question. It was after all, no small thing to take the life of a man.

Holmes considered thoughtfully for a moment, "I don't know."

"If you cannot trap this man within the limits of the law, then other means will have to be taken, Holmes." I insisted. "Planning his death will be just as difficult as planning his downfall was. You cannot go traipsing after him and expect a convenient chasm to appear at his heels."

This earned only a slight chuckle from him, I could tell he would not rather broach the subject at all, and I knew why, "You are speaking of a man's life, Watson."

"I have been a soldier and a doctor…I know well the worth of life. I know also you dislike the idea, but ensnaring him within the limits of the law is no longer a possibility. And if you attempt it you are going to get both of us killed, because I'm not going to leave you."

My friend's mouth drooped, and his dark brows furrowed, turning him into a great brooding statue. It was evident he did not like my conclusions, but I was almost certain of them.

"I will follow you to the farthest reaches of hell and back, Holmes, you know that without saying. But if we are to go there then you must be prepared. I want to know that the game is worth the candle."

He lost his composure so far as to reach up and run a hand over his hair, smoothing it in his old habitual manner, though being absolutely filthy it did him little good.

"Is that why you are hesitating to trust me?" he asked, finally disturbing the bleak silence, "Questioning me on a street full of snipers? You are afraid I will not do what is required?"

He looked like a man at a dock, and it was almost as though he were asking me to pass judgment.

"I think..." said I quietly, "that despite numerous antics on the shady side of the law, that you have never crossed this line before. I have, and I know the difficulty it presents. I trust you with my own life implicitly, Holmes. But I think you would sacrifice your own too readily, and perhaps not Moriarty's readily enough. I'm tired of playing games with the man, I think you are holding some of your powers in reserve for fear of over-stepping your bounds. If you truly mean to rid the world of Moriarty…then let us do so."

My friend stiffened and searched my face as though for a clue for some minutes. Then a little shiver ran though his face and shoulders, leaving them somewhat slumped.

"Very well," he said, getting to his feet, "I give you my word, Watson. That should it be necessary…I will cross the line…as long as you will not think less of me."

I nodded and he gripped my hand, pulling me to my feet. I walked with some more confidence behind my friend as we left the stairwell…convinced that I had stiffened the resolve of a civilian, into that of a soldier.

How now I wished I had never spoken those words to Sherlock Holmes.


	29. Two in the Bush

**I have no intention of abandoning this story until it is finished. Don't worry. I like it too much.  
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**This chapter is for Nomdeplume30, who flooded my inbox with reviews on some of the most difficult days i've ever had in college. Ta very much, chum!**

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_**Watson**_

__I remember on one occasion, a case where Holmes proved a man was guilty of murder by examining what his dog had eaten for breakfast. It was quite a brilliant affair with a line of subtlety that Holmes would have termed as _simply beautiful_. He did not have the chance to comment however, for in chasing the man across his garden lawn, he overlooked a fallen branch and as a result was laid up in bed several days with a sprained ankle and a severe concussion.

In my experience this is one of the three things on this earth that has the ability of defeating my friend. One is his own arrogance, second; pure dumb luck, and in the case of Mr. Shelton's Mastiff…an unseen enemy.

Some might consider it humorous that we overlooked such a possibility while pursuing the notoriously invisible Professor Moriarty.

I do not.

The evening found us in more dire circumstances than the morning had. After our engagement with the reckless snipers in the open street, Holmes insisted we stick to backwash alleys and paths, the likes of which I had rarely seen before.

We'd lost out lead, but he had several ideas where we might pick up another. Thus I saw more of Moriarty's criminal organization in that one day than I'd ever seen before.

I was astonished, and frankly outraged at the number of stations and safe houses that Moriarty kept throughout London. We made our way to stables, telegraph offices, tenements and flats of all descriptions, and at one point a townhouse that would have been satisfactory for the Mayor of London himself. We found all of them empty and Holmes lost character enough to curse in French and slam his fist against a delicate Seddon cabinet.

"I thought for certain we would find someone here," he growled, "A sentry of some sort, Watson. Where has he gone to ground?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea." I was tired and growing colder in the tattered clothes we had donned some time earlier. Holmes leaned increasingly on his stick throughout the day and I watched him limp a few feet in dismay.

He waved off my look, pacing and jolting the poor limb even further, it was a wonder he couldn't feel it panging for relief.

I would have sat, but my filthy coat would have left traces on the drawing room chairs, I leant against the wall instead (something I had been doing all day). "Perhaps he _has_ gone to ground."

Holmes shook his head. Its not like him to retreat. And we would know if he left. He is the keystone to all the forms of criminal activity in the city. He is here, Watson. I'm just not looking deeply enough."

"We've looked fairly deeply already. You have perhaps another hour on that leg before it gives. I wish you would let me look at it."

Holmes scowled, not at my comment but at filigreed wall.

"There must be some way to draw him out."

"Not unless there is something he wants."

His dark brows rose in thought and he glanced at me.

I shook my head. "If you use yourself as bait I will follow…"

"Blast your tenacity." He growled with honest frustration.

"How else do you think I've managed to keep hold of you all these years, and alive as point of fact." I let my heat rest against the wall too. "If you cannot find a lead you will just have to wait for another…you've done it before."

"Sitting and waiting and being useless!" There was genuine anger in his voice now. He was growing tired (hardly surprising after the last few days) and was no doubt in considerable pain from his leg, even if he didn't register it. We'd had some soggy chips from a street vendor, but that had been ages ago. I pulled myself away from the wall and took him by the arm.

"You need to rest."

He refused to look at me, and I could hear him grinding his teeth softly. There was a haughty tilt to his chin that told me it would take a herculean effort to persuade him.

"Holmes."

"And where exactly would we find a safe place to relax, as you put it, Watson?"

"There are a wealth of seedy pubs to choose from." I shrugged, "somewhere we haven't been before. If there is no trail to follow we should be safe enough."

"Pattern, Watson, pattern, everyone leaves a trail it is a pattern that makes us predictable. Which is why you and I have been carefully avoi—"

He stopped.

I touched his shoulder, wondering if maybe he would faint at last, and I could just treat him here. "Holmes?"

I was surprised, and a little dismayed, when instead his face cracked a smile beneath its dirt and soot.

"What is it?"

A little laughy breath escaped his exuberant expression, "Oh, Watson. It is no wonder I have been slow this last while without you. Come, we haven't a moment to lose."

He turned on his heel (his non-mangled one), effectively shaking off my grip and making his way towards the door.

I had to scramble to catch hold of him again. Snagging onto his coat I dug in my heels and let myself be dragged to slow him down.

"No, no, no, wait! Stop and explain! Explain, Holmes…Norbury."

He turned, and his smile was replaced with an incredulous smirk. "What?"

"You have to explain before we go out there; in case I do something asinine and almost get us shot" _because you didn't tell me what we were doing!_ I added silently.

"Oh…" Holmes pursed his lips in honest puzzlement over the conundrum. He was not accustomed to explaining. Lecturing, yes.

"Well…if you would be good enough to recall what we were just discussing, Watson?"

"Patterns?" I ventured.

He smiled, pleased, "Precisely."

He was evidently waiting for some sort of epiphany to strike me. His smile faded slowly.

"Patterns, Watson…its' how you predict someone's movements."

"Yes."

"We have been following Moriarty's old haunts, his patterns as it were, all day."

"I'm very aware of that," my aching feet testified of it; we had not dared to take a cab.

"But he is trying to find us, Watson." Holmes would have been rolling on the balls of his feet if he hadn't been partially lamed. "Don't you understand?"

Anxious now that he would write me off as a hopeless case I thought. "Moriarty…has been following _our_ patterns?"

"Yes...and?"

I shrugged, sheepishly. And Holmes released a longsuffering sigh. "Those are the very places we have been studiously avoiding!"

"Because we've had enough of air-gun snipers, coal gas, and rabid dogs to last us a lifetime."

My friend made a face. "You never said the dogs were rabid."

"Holmes…"

"Don't you see, Watson? Moriarty has been tailing us, we have been tailing him. All his remaining resources, the ones not holding back the tide of economic criminal failure, must be employed to find us."

I held up a hand to stop his flow of excited words. "So you're saying…we've spectacularly missed each other."

"Yes!" he sighed in relief, turned again. "Come along."

I tightened my grip. "First you will let me look at your leg and we will find something to eat."

"This is no time to peddle to your appetite," he was poised, ready for pursuit. But he was pale beneath the grime he'd disguised himself with, enough that the marks on his neck stood out red and painful. My arm was aching and it was an older injury than his leg.

"I will not wait until you collapse on the street and endanger the enterprise you have worked so hard to accomplish. Sit or I will kick your stick out from under you."

"Some doctor that would make you."

"I would be a disgraceful Doctor if I let men in a condition half as bad as yours into active duty in Afghanistan. Now sit down." I gestured to a chair and began to take out the few medical supplies I'd managed to stow on my person, a roll of clean bandaging, a bottle of antiseptic…

I was surprised and relieved when Holmes moved to the chair with a sigh, and sat, so much so that I failed to see his own looks of concern while I rolled up his trouser leg, removed his boot and cleaned the fang marks left by the dog. It was a mess from our jaunt about the city, and swollen from irritation, but there was still no sign of growing infection, for which I was grateful.

My hand shook as I finished the knot of the bandage, and Holmes captured my wrist, looking pensive.

"I have pushed us both. I should have recognized the signs, Watson, you always wax militaristic when you are tired."

"The throbbing in your leg wasn't signal enough?" I snorted, helping him to slide the boot back onto his foot, a task made difficult by the bulky package of tight bandaging.

"We will rest here for an hour, then find you some food." He declared imperiously as I tucked away my supplies. I was unwilling to leave them out any longer than necessary. A large helping of hair-breadth escapes had already taught me a measure of prudence.

"Thank you."

He settled himself more comfortably in the chair and waved at the sofa nearby. I sank gratefully onto it eager for sleep that came more readily since my collapse at the Diogenes. I had no delusions about Holmes sleeping, not even with his wounded leg and all our exertions. His mind was simply racing to fast for it.

I closed my eyes and consigned myself to the depths of Morpheus for one blessed hour, only to be torn from it far too soon by a soft voice and a gentle shaking on my shoulder. I followed Holmes out a window and groggily into the street where we blended with the masses. It was only after a few minutes that I became awake enough to realize that he had let me sleep not for a solitary hour.

He'd let me sleep for two.

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**You know he would. Holmes has a soft spot for Watson the way most fruit gets soft spots after a day in a cement-mixer. I had to sit down with a chessboard for an hour to figure out the plot of this chapter, and I'm still not sure its not just nonsense. If any one out there is or personally knows a criminal genius I could use the advice. **

**Sorry for all the banter. I can't write anything else with the two of them nattering away in my skull. More action in the next chapter.  
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**TBcontinued verrah verrah soon. **


	30. Crossing the Line

**Please don't die of shock, this is what exam week does to me. Ideally I should be testing all the time and I would be much more productive. **

**Either that or i've just heard Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer too many times this week. **

**This chapter contains violence and a bit of blood. **

**Enjoy. **

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_**Holmes**_

It was one thing to see the ruined state of Watson's books, and the scorched state of my own violin. It was quite another t behold the ruined ashes of our home in Baker Street, standing like a charred wound amidst the other tenements.

We had been moving swiftly through the darkened streets, but I was halted by the sight that met my eyes. I heard Watson's shoes scrape to a stop behind me, and his quiet huffing for breath, but I did not turn to look at him until I felt his hand on my shoulder and a murmured apology.

"You set fire to it yourself in order to escape, did you not?" it seemed yet another of the impetuous things my friend would do.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry you had to…I'm afraid our bill to Mrs. Hudson will be rather large this month."

"Isn't it always?"

I chuckled, and looked again at the ruination, trying to see if anything stirred inside.

Watson shuffled impatiently, perhaps eager to go and inspect his handiwork himself.

"Are we going to move closer?"

"Not yet, we must find a lookout first, come."

I pulled him back, around to the alley that ran behind the length of the buildings opposite our own, here the darkness was thicker, and we had access to the backdoors, and it was a moment's fumbling through the dark to reach the one I wanted.

I took out the lock-pick I had acquired earlier in the day and heard Watson huff disapprovingly.

"We may be moving outside the law, Holmes, but that does not mean we can break into someone's house while they're sleeping in their beds!"

"There is no one inside, now come on." I tugged him forward through the door and closed it quickly behind us. He looked about at the dusty walls and empty corridor.

"An empty house?"

"Where better to survey, undetected, my dear Watson?"

"And no doubt moving through this dust will add to our own slovenly appearance." He gestured at himself and the indiscriminate clothing he still wore.

"Precisely, dear boy. You'll be prevaricating in no time."

"Splendid, yet another useful skill I have acquired over the last few days. That makes lying, breaking and entering…"

He followed me, quietly listing his new interests, up the stairs to the front of the house, where two long, dusty windows greeted us.

I went to the left, the one closest to our rooms and peered out.

The destruction left by the fire was even more apparent from here. the entire top floor (including Watson's room) was burnt out, and our sitting room was no more than a blackened shell of brick and unstable beams. Perhaps the majority of Mrs. Hudon's rooms survived, but even those would need work before they would be habitable.

I am not given to sentiment, especially not to inanimate objects…but I would a very bad liar if I did if I tried to claim my heart did not twist a little at the sight.

"Do you see anything?" asked Watson, crouching beside me.

"Nothing of note," I said heavily as I peered at the wreckage in the dim light of the gaslamps. Luckily my vision was excellent. "The door on the landing is intact, its leaning against the frame, one of your thoughtful pursuers must have slammed it shut again as he left…it hasn't not been disturbed since."

Watson puzzled over this. "Does that mean no one's been inside?"

"Unless they bothered to set the door back again after the fire…unlikely, I can see very little else, not even a constable. Its lucky for us Alfie retrieved our remaining possessions—" I cut off with a gasp as a quick flicker of movement caught my eye.

"What is it?"

"Someone is on the ground floor."

Watson dropped to his knees to scuffle closer. "A thief?"

"He's not moving like a thief. Not even one in an abandoned house. No respectable burglar is that careless."

"What is he doing?"

"Pacing in front of the windows," I fairly pressed my nose against the glass, incredulous. "It's like he wants to be seen…"

"Holmes."

"If it's some sort of signal it's a poor one."

"Holmes."

"Perhaps he is waiting for someone."

"Holmes!"

Watson's hand clamped on the back of my neck, and he pulled me away from the window.

"What is it?" I growled at him. He gestured at a spot on the floor, so bathed in darkness it is not a wonder that I missed it. I leant down on my hands and lowered myself to see…

The thick layer of dust, that coated everything, had been disturbed. And it was a good foot away from any of the marks Watson or I had made. It was a footprint, a large one, from a heavy man, but tall and powerful, for it was not a lumbering scuff. Nor was it a workman's boot, but a clear, fine indentation made by a new, polished piece of leather…

"Moran…"

Watson started at the name, sitting up and reaching for the pocket that contained his revolver, he peered at the hall anxiously. "Mycroft, said he went to the continent."

"This track is not two days old, Watson."

"What reason would he have for coming here?"

"I'm not sure."

Someone laughed, and it was not my friend. Watson turned violently towards the darkest corner and leveled his gun at it, sighting coolly down the barrel.

Even as he sighted, something sprang from the shadows to his right and was upon me.

I threw up an arm to block, but a great forearm smashed across it, knocking me backward and a stick smashed into my wounded leg.

Tongues of acid licked away at the tortured flesh and I cried out as I collapsed to the floor, doing my best to cushion my fall.

I could hear the two of them struggling, Moran and Watson, who had already come to my defense. I struggled to push myself up, reaching for my own stick, and finding cold steel instead—Watson's revolver.

I raised it, pointed towards the combatants, waiting. Moran behaved predictably, driving a blow into Watson's wounded arm, and following through with a blow to his jaw, driving him back onto the floor as he had me.

He was smirking, breathing heavily, but instead of gloating or advancing to finish one of us off…he raised something to his shoulder in one swift movement and pointed it at Watson with the skill of an old Shikari, calmly spotting a tiger.

It was not a stick he'd hit me with after all—but an air-gun, and it was pointed at Watson's heart before I'd finished leveling the revolver.

Moran froze as I cocked it, and the metal snapped dully.

He turned his head to look at me, but I dared not rush him…his finger was tensed upon the trigger.

"Going to shoot me, Mr. Holmes, go on…its more merciful than a knife in the back, or a rope. I can only expect one or the other from you or Moriarty."

"Put your rifle down," the muzzle was still aimed at Watson's chest, which was rising and falling rapidly after his exertions. My friend's eyes were white in his face.

"I will not," Moran said. "I would rather shoot him than be caught by you."

"I will let you go," I found myself saying. And though my mind objected to this outcome, I found my heart in full agreement. "Put it down and walk away from here…I won't follow you."

"Oh but Mr. Moriarty will," Moran hissed. "He will follow me to hell and back after he's gutted you. You can't be as close to him as I've been and just walk away, Holmes."

"Put down that gun, or I will shoot you dead."

Moran laughed, "I do not believe you will. In fact I am quite curious to see if you can…go on, Mr. Holmes."

"…Holmes…" Watson breathed, warningly. And I recalled his words of earlier: _If you cannot trap this man within the limits of the law, then other means will have to be taken._

It was like scraping a razor along the inside of my being. To shoot a man in cold blood, without a trial or a judge, to spill his blood myself, there was no return from such an action.

But then, there was the promise I had made to Watson, an old campaigner with many lives on his conscience: _I give you my word, Watson, that should it be necessary…I will cross the line._

To enact this final judgment would be to take something that was not mine to take.

But his gun was pointed at Watson, and he would not miss.

He was about to take Watson in the same way.

Moran laughed at my conflict of a few seconds, his grip on the gun eased slightly and the machine of my brain clicked into place.

I fired, and a dark hole sprouted above Moran's ear. I watched as surreally his face went lax, his eyes dulled as they ceased to produce tears, and his body collapsed to the floor in a heap.

But not before his finger had tightened spasmodically on the trigger.

The gun flew up as he fell, so the trajectory of the bullet carried it into Watson's shoulder, not his heart.

Watson screamed and dear God in Heaven, I have never heard such a sound come from my friend before.

My hand coolly placed the smoking revolver into my pocket and I stumbled automatically over Moran's cooling corpse to get to Watson, and there the cogs in my head stuttered, slowed, and refused to operate anymore. I was kneeling next to my friend, fumbling with his hands as he writhed and fumbled with his blood-soaked sleeve.

His head was swimming from the impact of the bullet, as though it had carried him back two decades to the deserts of Afghanistan, where the shoulder had been shattered before.

"Get it out, get it out…oh God!"

The bullet was still inside, and he knew it; he must have been able to feel it burning away against the fractured bones and torn muscle.

I whimpered as my hands hovered uselessly over the wound, unable to do as he requested.

Noise from outside brought me sharply back to attention. The man, or rather men, across the street had stirred at the sound of gunshots. They pointed towards the empty house. In an instant I knew whose men they were. Not vagabonds, or police, or Moran's men, but Moriarty's set on the house for some purpose. Perhaps in hope they would draw me out into the open.

That was why Moran had been waiting with the air-gun. Either he would get a shot at me, or the criminal mastermind that now considered him a liability.

There were three of them (Moriarty was spread thin indeed) and they ran towards the house, alerted by my gunshot.

Watson had tried to warn me—_"…Holmes…"_—not telling me to shoot, but to alert me to the noise. Moran's airgun would have shot him silently. To save his life I had to give away our position. Of course he would rather have sacrificed himself.

"You idiot," I hissed, fumbling in his pockets for the roll of bandages, and in his sleeve for a relatively clean handkerchief. I drew my penknife and cut away the filthy clothing, grateful that he was not so thorough in his disguise that the skin was cleaner beneath. I pressed the handkerchief against the wound eliciting a croak of protest from him. I began to unroll the bandage around the bloody mess.

"You raving lunatic."

He peered up at me, coming back to himself gradually. "Tighter…wrap it…tighter."

I did so, for dark blood was flowing freely. I tugged it sharply and Watson gasped, trying to escape my ministrations.

They were at the front door, trying to break it in.

I tied off the bandage, cut it and stuffed the rest in my pocket.

Watson was still motionless, groaning. So I got to my feet and hurried to gather up Moran's rifle and sling it over my shoulder. I snatched a handful of bullets from his pocket and took his wallet as well.

My friend was gray, and trembling, his skin slick with sweat, but there was no time for consideration. I hauled him to his feet and placed my neck under his good arm when he started to fall.

They were having trouble with the door; hopefully the back way would still be open. I fairly dragged my friend from the room towards the stairs.

Hiding would do no good; and we could not outrun them in our condition. There was only one course of action left to me.

"I hope you're pleased with yourself," I gasped to my shivering companion. Watson's eyes shone dully with confusion. "You've finally found a way to make me save my own skin."

Whatever happened now, I would have to survive to ensure Watson's survival. I could only pray Moriarty behaved as I predicted.

We reached the bottom of the steps just as the front door burst and I dragged Watson back into the kitchen to wait as they passed us. I breathed a little in relief as only Two sets of feet fled up the steps.

The third had gone for Moriarty.

I held Watson tightly as his breathing stuttered, and prayed for the speedy arrival of my Napoleon of Crime.

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**Cliffhanger! And you can't kill me if you ever want to know what happens!**

**It might make you feel better if I told you that I have no idea what's going to happen either. Holmes is improving this one. **

**To be continued soon. Put those tomato guns down!**


	31. Dead Men Dead Men

**Holmes**

Watson was always a mindful surgeon.

Others might become complacent in their practices, with nurses and orderlies and nice, sterile environments.

At the commencement of his career, my Watson did not have such luxuries or time or readiness. In the military when things move they moved very quickly indeed, one had to know what to take and quickly.

Whether from his traumatic experiences, or continual practice in his adventures with me, this was a habit Watson had never lost.

Therefore, when we left to go hunting the most infamous criminal Europe had ever known, grabbing whatever we could from Mycroft's rooms, Watson had grabbed the correct items.

I knew this, knew exactly what I would find even before I reached into his pocket and felt the items. More bandage rolls, needle and suture thread, a penknife, and several items wrapped securely in linen.

I removed these last few items, unrolled them on my lap and lifted the syringe I expected to find.

It took some effort to keep Watson balanced against my shoulder as I unstoppered the little glass bottle and filled the needle with its contents. Reaching around his shuddering ribcage was exceedingly difficult.

He paused in his laborious occupation for breath to open his eyes and focus on me, sensing the concentration of my efforts.

"What are you doing?" his throat creaked as the merest whisper of air left it.

"You said, a while ago, that you would follow my instructions?"

The lines between his brows deepened into furrows, and his eyes shone with alarm. "Yes…"

"Then listen to me now," Said I, drawing the needle out and setting the bottle aside. "And do as I say."

He opened his mouth to protest.

"You will be in as much danger as I," I waited for him to listen, to stop struggling with the infernal conscience that always seemed to have its claws in him. No man had a personal code of honor when compared with John Watson.

He closed his mouth and looked at me, stoically burying the pain of the bullet burning away against torn nerve-endings.

"I fear we have run out of space and time to run…And in any case I have been using you up too freely of late. So I am going to end the game." As he watched I raised the needle to his collarbone, not a little ways from the bloody bandaging of his shoulder. "We have only moments, I need you to be a dead man, Watson."

I administered the drug efficiently, and with only a small quizzical look from him. Both the confusion and the pain were soothed away from his brow in moments. His breath slowed and deepened.

I lowered him gently to the floor. The footsteps of Moriarty's henchmen came cascading back down the steps, voices raised in alarm. The pained blue eyes of my friend began to glaze over.

"Just trust me and everything will turn out I promise you."

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**Grim.**


	32. Come Alive

**Happy New Year**

**_Professor James Moriarty_**

"He's in there, Professor."

I sighed at my operative's usual obtuseness. Even my most trusted agents, the only ones left now, failed to clarify.

Richardson did take note, however, or my reaction, and was quick to correct himself.

"I mean Mr. Holmes, sir. The Colonel _is_ dead as we reported."

I glanced at the empty house where Moran had chosen to nest. Sad waste of talent, and how unlucky. The very act of running out on the organization had led him to his death.

"Is Mr. Holmes alone?"

Richardson shook his head. "No sir, not…not really."

"Is the Doctor with him, or isn't he?"

"They're both inside."

"Armed?"

"Not anymore, Sir."

I considered Richardson with more careful appraisal. His promptness was lacking. But his initiative seemed to be in full force; a quality that could be dangerous, or useful.

He grew nervous again under my scrutiny and attempted to straighten. "And we've searched the rest of the house. It's clear to go in."

I stepped down from the cab, onto the pathetically overgrown front stoop of the house. Richardson and his men had forced their way through the front door. More subtlety would have to be applied.

The house was empty and still. I found no resistance or rubble to impede my progress. One of Richardson's men stood by the back door, facing another dark room: kitchen, with dim light creeping in through a large open window, no doubt placed over a washtub.

His third man stood inside, with Moran's airgun, in one hand, and his revolver in the other.

On the floor before me crouched Sherlock Holmes. His disguise was good, and no doubt this was how he had evaded my sights the last two days. The clothes were secondhand, the mud and soot basic and passable. Even his hair had been flattened by a working-class cloth cap that must have been lost in the struggle upstairs. In such a credulous form he could stay hidden indefinitely within the masses, quite ingenious.

Of more interest were the splatters of blood that ran from his collar, to his trembling hands.

Dr. Watson was similarly attired as a workman, and lay supine before his friend's knees, expressionless, and marred with the blood Holmes was only splattered with.

"Moran is dead, if that is any consolation to you." I said and watched his shoulders hunch together, as though shielding himself from a blow. His face was turned purposefully downwards.

"I don't suppose to a man of your feeling it would be."

Holmes clenched his hands to fists, and tucked his arms about his stomach. No doubt his body rebelled against him in this matter.

"It was quick." I observed, seeing the hasty, blood=soaked bandage around the Doctor's shoulder. A better fate at least, than what I had been planning."

I expected some display of emotion at this comment, but he did not rise to it, not even with a caustic remark. Sherlock Holmes seemed to be without purpose emotionally and intellectually.

How interesting.

I stepped around the Doctor's body within his sights and met his face as he looked upwards.

He had not been weeping, but he looked nearly as corpselike as his friend with dull eyes.

I tilted my head, crouched slowly, his eyes tracked me.

"Are you not moved, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes looked at me, and there was some hint of old intelligence in his eyes. Dying embers more than fire.

"Moran is dead?"

"Yes."

The Detective lowered his gaze again, determined to block me out like a particularly stubborn child.

"Then what else is there to do?"

He was looking at his friend, at the dead man's still, pale face. He stretched a hand out, as though to perform some caress, but it shook inches before it touched the body and he withdrew it, bringing it to his lips.

I had met many living breathing corpses in my work. Moran himself was such a person, disillusioned of the empire, from years of war, and the perjury brought on him by family and nobility.

All it had taken, to reduce Sherlock Holmes to such a state, was a single bullet.

Perhaps Moran had served me one last purpose after all.

I stood, circled again behind Holmes. The police had been informed of the gunshots, they would arrive in a matter of minutes. We had little enough time.

I could have him shot. Shoot him myself. Or give myself more time to think.

"Give him his stick."

Richardson blinked at me, frustratingly slow to react before snatching up the hardwood stick and pressing it into Holmes' limp hand.

Holmes' gaze was only a fraction more confused than dead.

"Leave the bodies, report back to Hansfield. Richardson, bring Mr. Holmes to the cab."

I turned and strode back out of the house. Sounds of uncoordinated scuffling confirmed that Richardson was following my instructions.

I stood aside and allowed Richardson to place Holmes in the cab first. He was cautious enough to secure a set of handcuffs to one wrist and the narrow brass clasp that secured the window at the back.

Mr. Holmes did not object, but clung to his stick and watched me with the wary eyes of an kicked dog approached with a bowl of food.

Richardson offered me his pistol, and once again I had to correct his slow wit. My driver, Conseil was well equipped for any such event, as always.

"I'm done with you," I reminded him, stepped inside, and the refreshingly prompt Conseil started the horse forward.

We went for some minutes in the dark streets, and Sherlock Holmes sat in his corner, one arm twisted awkwardly to the back window, eyes fixed on me with only mild. grudging interest. As though the rest of the world, the whole tawdry balance of the mundane and immoral composition of it held no more sway.

"I suspected your regard for the Doctor went to lengths such as this."

He looked away, out at the cobblestones; not the shops, or the late traffic.

Correction, the last thing that had kept the world balanced in his eyes was gone, eliminated. Could the whole formation of a man's career and spirit really be built on such a flimsy foundation.

"Perhaps it is kinder, the Doctor suffered more in his life than most."

He closed his eyes at that, shook his head.

"He put himself in the way of other people's troubles…"

"I don't want—"

"…took on their burdens, unnecessarily, to end up here."

Holmes put his head in his free hand, which was again curled into a fist. "Have the goodness," he croaked with breaking voice. "Not to speak of Watson."

I granted him a moment of silence.

"We are men of our words, Holmes. I can trust you to do what you say; even if it is to bring destruction on yourself…and your associates."

In the light of a streetlamp I saw his throat tic. "Why would you need to trust me?"

I smiled. He still had some measure of independence…but he was dependent upon far more.

"You are privy to the most powerful man in the government. You can plan, you can think—"

I leaned back into the comfortable seat, and watched my torpid kingdom pass as a diorama in front my cab.

"You have undone what no man could undo, you could help me to redo it. And most of all, it will be an interesting and innovative task."

Holmes looked down at the street passing beneath the wheel; the gaze of a man who sees little in his future.

I cleared my throat. "I meant to ask you, in your rooms at Baker street…what aspect of the general public makes them worthy of your destruction? Especially now, after what it has cost you?"

I was given no answer…but I hardly needed one now. We were moving, safe…there was time now.

"In every case…you will be useful to me." I said and looked ahead once again. "I mean only to ask if your answer remains the same, or if these new considerations hold any weight."

**_Holmes_**

Moriarty sat like the spider in the shadowy corner of its web, satisfied to wait for my answer.

I considered the street for a moment more, then coughed and cleared my throat.

"Perhaps…perhaps they would."

I was met with silence…aside from the meticulous pattern of the wheel spinning beside me. His driver really was recommendable in his pacing.

"Thank God I will never find out," I said, and drove my stick between the spokes of the wheel in perfect time.

The next sounds to reach both our ears, was the shrieking of wood, and the scream of our horse.


	33. A Fresh Face

**Ding dong the witch is dead, the wicked witch, la la la laaa**

* * *

**Holmes**

Later I was told that the cab tipped violently to the left and dashed itself against the metal railing outside of a barrister's office.

There were twenty-four witnesses who saw this happen, and six of them were within nine yards of the office when it occurred, close enough to give accounts.

I was informed that upon collision the cab very nearly shattered on impact, and that the horse suffered a broken leg and had to be put down.

I remember none of this, save for the shrieks of the wounded horse, and amid the rest of the screaming chaos it was barely noticeable.

I do remember an instant of thoughtfulness, when I felt the trajectory of our vehicle, and Moriarty's hand digging rigidly into my shoulder. I observe great amounts of detail in everything I see, but that was not the case here. It is interesting what the mind decides to fasten on in moments of panic. The greatest lasting impression I had of that event, was the stark green of the barrister's railing as it rushed towards us.

And then I was hit with an overwhelming force and thrown, traveling so fast it seemed my own body had been reduced to mere energy.

I heard the shrieking, and realized that I had stopped. Solid cobblestones lay against my side—or rather I against them—and cool air was stinging against the abrasions on my face.

There was something wrong with me, but the whole of my body was trembling and numb so I could not tell immediately what. I felt rather like a carefully packed bag, that had been tossed about and trampled until everything inside it was misplaced or shattered.

Either I felt alien, or the scene that met my eyes was alien to me. Splinters of wood drifted through the air, and great slabs of the black-painted cab lay about me. An inch from my hand lay the shattered remains of the back window…and I realized I was still cuffed to its brass frame by my wrist.

It was around this time that the world caught up with my own enhanced speed and I realized there were people, running, screaming, gathering near. The horse was lying half-on the pavement, pitifully kicking its legs. The leather seat was collapsed onto its back to my right, and staggering up against it with a bloody hand was Moriarty.

I rolled onto my front, still shaking in the wrongness of my own body and grasped his leg. He twisted round, his face set in a shocked, furious snarl, blinking furiously in the blood streaming from his head.

His pupils were mismatched, concussion I registered, and at least a sprained ankle for he moved gingerly. I had no time to calculate other injuries as he kicked out at me. I yanked the good leg from under him with trembling-adrenaline-born strength.

He fell, rolled closer, sought out my throat with his hands, I locked my arm around his and struggled to hold onto him.

And then I settled fully into my own bruised body, and the hurts and shock sapped all but the last of my strength.

His hands tightened on my throat and I could only cling to him as tightly as possible.

I only needed a few moments…

I sucked in a breath as his hands were wrenched away.

"Stand clear now!"

Oh the unmelodious carol of the policeman on his beat. I could have sung with relief…if I was not already gasping against the growing pain.

I half expected Moriarty to worm his way free, but a stolid workman had him gripped by the collar, and the confused young officer was pressing his fresh face into the professors'.

"Sir, if you could refrain from stranglin' this gentleman! You are both wounded…" he trailed off; shocked at the contradiction of his own observations and the circumstances he found them in. He had expected a cab accident, a tragic one, and the occupants were doing their best to snuff one another out.

I choked back all the protestations of my body and spoke in a surprisingly clear voice.

"Constable, we need inspectors Patterson, and Lestrade here at once."

He turned on his thick boot to look at me, his expression declaring me to be completely insane.

"That man is a criminal and I have evidence against him." I tried to push myself up, but most of my limbs were having a difficult time responding.

"And who are you, Sir? "

"Sherlock Holmes."

The Yard views me with a mixture of grudging respect and exasperation. All of the inspectors had corroborated with me on one case or another, and filled their constables' heads with nonsense and prejudice about my methods. Some of the tales I had heard circulated I did not believe myself.

Never had I dreamed that my association with the yard had earned me any degree of devotion…or dare I say affection?

"Mr. Holmes, Sir?"

The constable nudged my shoulder, caught between some sort of awe and the conviction that I was indeed a madman.

I lifted my head in hopes he would recognize me, and I saw an honest face light up with…relief?

"Mr. Holmes!" he gripped my good hand in his own rough one and wrung it for a second before recalling where we were and the sorry state of his two new charges.

"We thought you dead, Sir!"

"I am not," I gasped, as pain began to roil over me in waves, starting mostly at my left side.

"Yes, Sir," He pushed his helmet back a little and looked over at Moriarty, who had gone deadly still in the tightened grips of his captors.

"I can't just arrest—"

"This man's name is Moriarty. You have a standing warrant for his arrest."

His eyes cleared and he reached for the manacles at his belt.

"I have sent for an ambulance, Sir."

I shook my head, and as warmth fled my body, I felt the trickle of hot blood on the back of my neck for the first time.

"I cannot go in an ambulance, constable. There is other urgent business I must—

I pushed myself to my knees with my good hand, and discovered at once, what was wrong with me.

My left arm, the one that Moriarty's henchman had chained to the cab, was not only cut and bleeding from the shattered glass, but hanging limp and unresponsive next to me. The left side of my body was painful as tenderized meat and did not welcome movement.

I swayed where I sat and the Constable gripped my shoulders to keep me upright. His hand met bone and sinew made white hot by some strain and he pulled it away again as I gasped, turned white, and pitched forward.

He blasted his whistle and I heard his voracious barking as hands came to settle me down onto someone's coat.

"You just hold on, Sir." A rough hand patted my back; I heard a shot as someone ended the screaming of the poor horse, and the snap of handcuffs.

"Lestrade…" I gasped, for there was one more urgent thing I had to do…_needed _to do. "Send for…"

"We'll take it from here."

Perhaps it is understandable that I sometimes curse my body for an appendix when it betrays me in such a fashion as it did then, because I could fight no longer and swiftly lost consciousness.

* * *

**DING DONG THE WICKED WITCH IS DEAAAAAAAD!**

**Wait a moment...there's supposed to be fluff now. Isn't there? Enough of the hurt this has been a whump fest for three years! What about Watson?**


	34. Fragments of Eggshell

**Recently, I've been made to love Lestrade.**

**That had no bearing on this chapter.**

**None whatsoever! *munches denial biscuits*  
**

* * *

**Holmes**

"Mr. Holmes, sir."

"Inspector," the word tumbled from my mouth, end over front, eager to escape. It left me feeling a little bereft as there my instinct abandoned me…

What was that strange, all-encompassing sensation that radiated through my whole body? Not warmth surely, warmth did not induce stuttering breath and shudders.

A hand encased in a leather glove patted my cheek, well-used, but well-cared for from the oily smell, no more than a few years old, short fingers, small owner.

"Lestrade."

"Wake up, sir."

The patting stopped in favor of curling the hand around the back of my head and cautiously lifting.

Perhaps I was mistaken about the warmth. it was a very similar sensation, like a slow-burning bed of coals. However one thing I did know, the fire should not be _inside of me._

"Easy. There we are, Mr. Holmes. You're awake, open your eyes for me now."

I didn't want to, I wanted to close them more tightly, and flee the consciousness I had unwarily stumbled into.

"We've got an hospital cart here, sir. We'll soon have you safe. Should we send for the Doctor?"

Doctor. Of course. I was not particularly fond of the police surgeons. Unnecessary. I had my own living at home. During messy cases he would tend me, not they. Lestrade knew this…

I opened my eyes, as though expecting to see him there, already clucking over the hurts.

"Watson."

"That's right, Mr. Holmes." The glove patted my shoulder kindly.

"No," I put out the arm that would obey me, and gripped the inspector's coat. "No. Dear heaven! Lestrade, help me up."

My efforts to lever myself, while sluggish, alarmed the little official. "There's no need for haste. The ambulance…"

"No ambulance, Lestrade! Be good enough to assist me!"

"I'll not do that. You look worse than cured ham sir, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Damn your eyes then!"

His face curled from coddling to rodential pique, "Mr. Holmes."

There were three vehicles around us, aside from the ruined cab. Two Maria's stood, one loaded and locked upon our prisoner, and blistering with constables headed by Peterson. The other stood open for me.

It would wait a long wait. The third vehicle was a small trap, pulled by one fresh horse; the one that Lestrade had arrived in judging by the mud on his trouser cuff.

"Into your trap, Lestrade! Help me to stand—"

"You cannot stand, sir!

As his stature dictated, Lestrade lacked the booming authority of many inspectors. But his voice was waspish now and cut me sharply.

"You may as well be as dead as we've supposed. There's not an inch of skin left untouched on your sorry hide. Watson will have my head if I let you go swa—"

I had lost consciousness. I did not even know how much time had passed. Even with the bullet imbedded, and the pressure of the bandages the bloodloss alone would be dangerous.

"We have only so much time to reach him," I pulled myself up, away from the solicitous coats covering the ground and Lestrade's supporting arm. I took no pleasure in his astonishment, as my own body was equally astonished and outraged.

"What has happened?" the Inspector quibbled, forever looking to me for answers, listening when it was most vital. Sharpest and quickest of the men of Scotland yard!

"He's shot."

He swore, motioned to his men even as he spoke to me with only an iota of attention. "Tell me where."

I shook my head, pulled myself up. "I won't say where he is." I didn't trust that someone was not listening, might still be waiting on previous instructions to go back, to finish it.

Moriarty, I would trust into the hands of Scotland Yard; Watson, I would not.

"Send a man to Pall Mall for my brother."

Lestrade beckoned one young faced man closer. "What should he say?"

I wracked my brains, "To stop in for luncheon, and to bring an expert."

My audience hardly blinked at this strangeness. A country inspector would have taken an hour to convince.

"You heard him, Price. Go! Bentley, help me lift him."

I stiffened my legs, allowed the constable to take my good arm while Lestrade got the door of the trap. It was only a few steps, eight at most. I walked with a body made of water and eggshells but my legs held, and I had no concussion, despite the blood on the back of my head. I could move…just.

Once collapsed against the seat I turned to look at Peterson. He and the rest of the men were still clustered around the Maria where the Professor sat.

"All that work, Inspector," I said. "Do not let it be for nothing. Not a _moment_ should you trust him, or anyone you don't recognize. The deepest, safest cell until I come."

Peterson was not a bidable man, but he was almost too intelligent to be an inspector. He listened and nodded in reassurance, the bandages on his right shoulder a testament to his renewed sense of caution.

Lestrade had taken the reins for himself—having driven before, with fair regularity as his palms attested—I confided our destination in low terms and he started the horse off at a swift gait.

"If you die off in that seat I'll let you tumble out into the road," he muttered.

**Watson**

"He's alive…"

"Well he certainly looks more alive than you. You should have let me bring the Maria, Sir!"

"No, we're not moving…until my brother…"

"I'm looking forward to meeting this brother of yours."

"Check his shoulder, Lestrade."

"I will if you stay seated…_dear heaven, what shoulder_? I can't find it amid these bloody bandages!"

"Has the bleeding stopped?" the voice snapped, crackled like gunpowder and I couldn't help flinching.

"Did you see?"

I was listening to the voices, but I couldn't respond. My lungs seemed to have floated off somewhere a while ago,

"Watson?" something growled at me, and gripped my chin between hard fingers. "Come back, old fellow."

Nonsense, how could I come back when I didn't even know where I was? And wherever that was, it was far too pleasant to leave. The voices should join me, and then perhaps they would not growl and snap like a pair of vultures over the broken wounded body of a soldier.

So many bodies scattered all over the place, staining the sand. You think there'd be enough for everyone, no need for fighting.

The fingers shook me, rattling my jaw about in my skull. Limp teeth clacked against one another like dice. "Watson, wake up!"

"Mr. Holmes…"

"Listen to me, Watson. Wake up!"

My head was already dizzy from all the fluttering birds and club soda inside it, all muffled under a layer of cotton. The shaking of the hand clenched on my jaw only sent the poor birds spinning in circles.

Perhaps though, it shook my lungs back into place because a little puff of air dislodged itself from my throat.

"St-t"

"Let him go, Mr. Holmes.'

"Watson, come along now—"

Perhaps my hand was tired of the treatment, for suddenly it was fixed on someone's wrist, quite without my knowledge or approval.

"S-stop."

The shaking stopped, and I peered at my clenched fingers in bleary astonishment.

There was a release of air above me, excited and breathless, the hand left my chin, curling around the back of my head, raising it, raising_ me _a little ways until I was propped against something warm and quivering—so very unlike the surface I had been laying on before.

My eyes rolled until the motion stopped and I was able to see a bit of cloth. Brown, blue and gray threads all weaved into a rough pattern, hurting my eyes so I closed them again with a moan. The fingers at the back of my head sifted through my hair slightly.

"Good," the voice crackled again. Not in anger, I realized, but in wear and tear. Obviously made from old parchment, crushed and torn until it was unrecognizable. "There's a good fellow."

"Mr. Holmes…perhaps you should lie down."

The warmth beneath me shifted and settled, obviously determined to stay, for which I could find no complaint.

"We'll do fine for a few moments, Inspector." The voice breathed noisily. "Go and look for my brother, please."

The birds in my head quietly settled back into their positions. But the fingers against my head continued to tense slightly now and again, as though gripping at something.

* * *

**Thing about being in a vehicle accident: part of you feels invincible from the overdose of adrenaline. **

**On the other hand, morphine sends you on a long ride down the lazy river at the water park. **


	35. Safe

**_Look, Comfort!  
_**

**_Watson_**

I missed my brother.

He was cold in his grave, and I was a full-grown man who had experienced the full horrors offered by war and the underbelly of London alike. But there were nights when I desperately missed the comforting arms and soft words.

He was my earliest tormentor and competitor, often leaving me with tears and a skinned knee. But at night it was he who sat and talked with me amidst the growing, creeping shadows of our nursery.

I missed that protective feeling, especially when I regained consciousness the evening following the cab accident.

But I am leaping ahead.

First there was the horrible tang of blood on the back of my tongue, and then there were other things, I had trouble distinguishing between lights and sounds. It was more a mix of colors that assaulted my ears and eyes, much too loud.

And then there was pain. A sharp finger of it dug into my shoulder and chest, and I could feel the tattered edges of muscle and bone protesting. It set me whining unconsciously like a kicked dog until I clenched my jaw. Pain is the body's method of warning us to desist. If it hurts the general rule is to stop, so I did what every natural human did, and subsided.

Things were dark and soft for a long time after that. There was no cloud of suffocating darkness. It was more like ceasing to be at all. _I_ was the cloud and I didn't push against the soft borders in case I drifted away entirely.

And slowly my body or consciousness—whichever was clinging to life more—came together again, piece by piece.

One of the pieces was someone's brother.

I knew it was not my own, he was dead. And in any case, he was not talking to me.

"…you couldn't, not even at that damned boarding school. Father had a box full of letters about your fights. Do you remember how amused he was?"

"Then Hammond."

"Yes, and then that little weasel pushed you down the stairs and you broke your bones. I remember that too. Worst summer holiday I've ever spent."

"Didn't bother you…"

"Yes you did. Nanny was wrapped around your finger enough to bring you a suckled pig, but you weren't interested in her gossip. I'm the one who had to provide you with entertainment if you remember."

"You were good."

"Yes, well…"

"You made up the game."

"I had to do something to stop your brain turning to mush. You stopped whimpering when you were too busy pointing out the stains on other people's clothing.."

"Didn't whimper, you great behemoth."

"You did."

"You would have sat on me."

"I should have. It would have put you out of your misery, and saved all of us a great deal of grief. Poor cook, you mistakenly deduced she was trying to poison the groom because of a white powder on her cuff."

"Cyanide."

"Powdered sugar, the woman was making biscuits."

"I was bored."

I opened my eyes. I didn't mean to, but when enjoying a story I rarely notice what I am doing.

The colors were gone and dimmed to a single lamp, perched on a bedside table above my head.

I was lying in an enormous, low bed. At the moment all I cared was how soft it was. I would have gladly let myself sink into that wonderful surface and sleep, but they were still talking.

"You are easily bored. What did I have for lunch?"

"Lamb curry?"

"Goodness they did give you a great deal of morphine didn't they?"

Beside me Sherlock Holmes slumped against a great pile of cushions. Except the cushions moved and I realized that it was a person, sitting like a Bedouin in a tent, leaning over to check the time on the little carriage clock that ticked away beneath the lamp.

This person sighed and settled back again, gently rubbing circles into his brother's shoulder.

Holmes' eyes were closed, rather purposefully, as one was rather swollen shut. Matter of fact the entire right side of his face was swelling and colored, or covered in sticking plaster. He looked like a badly packaged piece of ground beef.

Mycroft, for the first and only time, showed more energy than either Holmes or me. He turned his head and looked down to where I lay. Perhaps he'd heard some small sound of dismay from me. He smiled upon seeing me awake.

"Hello, Doctor."

Holmes attempted to sit, and I saw the manner in which his left arm had been fastened to his chest beneath the dressing gown.

Mycroft's hand clamped down on his right shoulder and pulled him firmly back to his former place.

Holmes moaned a little and swore, "Too much morphine."

"Yes, you are rapidly losing your inhibitions. Why don't you go to sleep?"

Holmes ignored him, flung out his left hand until it brushed my face. "Watson?"

"I imagine he would like to sleep, as most sane people do when they are recovering."

I couldn't find my own hands, but I nodded against Holmes' and slurred. "Where…?"

Mycroft answered. "We are still in London, Doctor, for a little while. Go back to sleep, dear boy."

I was devilishly tired so I did, but not without a pang for my own brother that was lessened by the long-fingered hand against my cheek.

** It was supposed to continue here, but I'm too dang sleepy after writing that.**


End file.
